<*H1BRAI 

£     £> 


AND 


THOSE  WHO  MADE  THEM 


THREE  HUNDRED  STANDARD  80NQB  OF  THE  ENGLISH- 
SPEAKING  RACE,  ARRANGED    WITH  PIANO  ACCOMPANIMENT, 
AND  PRECEDED  BY  SKETCHES  OF  THE   WRITERS 
AND  HISTORIES  OF  THE  SONGS 


BY 

HELEN  KENDR1CK  JOHNSON 


Sweet  are  familiar  songs,  though  Music  dips 
Her  hottvut  shell  in  Thought's  forlornest  wells 


NEW  YORK 
.HEKI-IV     HOLT     AND     COMPANY 

1889 


Copyright,  1881, 
By  HENRY  HOLT  &  CO. 


Library 


OUR  FAMILIAR  SONGS, 

THEY  need  no  introduction  ;  they  come  with  the  latch-string  assurance  of 
old  and  valued  friends,  whose  separate  welcomes  have  encouraged  them  to  drop 
in  all  together.  They  are  not  popular  songs  merely,  nor  old  songs  exclusively, 
but  well-known  songs,  of  various  times,  on  almost  every  theme  of  human  inter- 
est. They  are  the  songs  we  have  all  sung,  or  wished  we  could  sing  ;  the  songs 
our  mothers  crooned  over  our  cradles,  and  our  fathers  hummed  at  their  daily 
toil ;  the  songs  our  sisters  sang  when  they  were  the  prima  donnas  of  our 
juvenile  world  ;  the  songs  of  our  sweethearts  and  our  boon  companions  ;  the 
songs  that  have  swayed  popular  opinion,  inspirited  armies,  sustained  revolu- 
tions, honored  the  king,  made  presidents,  and  marked  historical  epochs. 

Very  great  songs — great  in  all  respects — are  comparatively  few.  Perhaps 
a  continued  and  warmly-expressed  interest  in  the  makers  of  familiar  songs— 
equivalent  to  that  which  other  artists  enjoy — would  render  those  who  are  will- 
ing to  make  the  songs  of  a  nation  quite  as  numerous  as  those  who  are  anxious 
to  make  its  laws.  The  revival  of  degenerate  song  begun  by  Burns  was  a  new 
inspiration  ;  and  although  several  Scottish  ladies,  immediately  following  him, 
kept  themselves  sedulously  hidden  from  public  view,  while  they  produced  some 
of  the  finest  songs  ever  written,  a  deep  personal  interest  became  manifest  toward 
the  writers  of  lyric  verse  in  Scotland.  The  result  is,  that  no  other  people  pos- 
sesses such  an  array  of  poets  whose  rhyme  can  be  echoed  in  written  melody,  and 
there  is  more  popular  knowledge  of  Scotland' s  song- writers  than  of  those  of  any 
other  nation.  In  England  little  interest  has  been  manifested  in  this  portion  of 
the  tuneful  guild,  and  still  less  has  our  own  country  troubled  itself  about  it,1? 
singing  men  and  singing  women. 

John  Howard  Payne's  magnificent  monument  only  testifies  to  consideration 
that  came  too  late.  But  for  him,  and  for  others  even  more  deserving,  ostenta- 
tious and  costly  monumental  remembrance  is  not  to  be  desired.  Something 
with  more  of  human  sympathy  in  its  expression  should  take  its  place. 

"Gi'e  pillar'd  fame  to  common  men  ; 
Nae  need  o'  cairns  for  aue  like  thee," 

says  Lady  Nairne,  whose  songs  are  her  own  most  fitting  memorial.  "  Old  Dog 
Tray"  is  as  much  a  reality  to  us  all  as  if  we  had  never  sung  the  song  without  his 
wagging  tail  to  beat  the  time.  Yet  Stephen  C.  Foster,  who  drew  that  picture 

3GS2455 


vi  01 II  FAMILIAR 

nt  dumb  devotion  to  man  in  his  loneliness.  \vas  himself  the  saddest  realization 
of  the  plaintive  fane}7.  Epes  Sargent  was  long  a  successful  author  and 
editor  ;  but  thousands  who  never  heard  of  him  as  either,  know  that  somebody 
wrote  "  A  Life  on  the  Ocean  Wave,"  with  which  they  cheer  their  inland  homes. 
Caroline  Gilman  is  associated  with  h3r  books  for  the  young,  but  hardly  with 
her  "  Trancadillo"  chorus,  which  is  sung  by  boating  parties  when  all  books  are 
forgotten.  Bulwer  is  known  by  his  stately  novels,  but  not  by  his  song,  "  When 
Stars  are  in  the  Quiet  Skies,"  though  no  moonlight  ride  is  complete  without  it. 
It  is  perhaps  hardly  necessary  to  say,  in  regard  to  the  biographical  sketches, 
that  it  has  been  my  purpose  to  make  them  full  in  the  case  of  authors  little 
known,  but  not  to  cumber  the  book  with  the  familiar  details  of  the  lives  of  more 
famous  men.  It  is  assumed  that  the  ordinary  reader  knows,  or  can  readily 
turn  to,  the  history  of  authors  like  Ben  Jonson,  Lord  Byron,  Longfellow,  and 
Tennyson,  while  he  would  be  glad  to  find,  in  this  connection,  information  about 
such  as  Tannahill,  Bayly,  Dempster.  Ainslie,  and  Foster. 

I  take  pleasure  in  expressing  my  indebtedness  to  Professor  EDWARD  S.  Cr  M- 
MIITOS,  of  New  York,  for  the  skill  and  care  with  which  he  has  edited  the  music  in 
this  volume.  My  thanks  are  also  cordially  returned  for  courtesies  received  from 
publishers  who  hold  the  copyright  of  songs  included  here  :  Messrs.  Oliver  Dit 
son  &  Co. ,  Boston ;  William  A.  Pond  &  Co. ,  New  York ;  G.  Schirmer,  New 
York  ;  Louis  Meyer,  Philadelphia  ;  and  S.  Brainerd's  Sons,  Cleveland  ;  as  well 
as  to  the  authors  and  composers.  For  much  of  the  information  which  here 
appears  in  print  for  the  first  time,  I  am  indebted  to  the  personal  kindness  of 
friends  and  relatives  of  the  authors,  retired  music-publishers,  and  others,  both 
here  and  in  England,  in  whose  memories  alone  were  to  be  found  any  records  of 
some  of  the  writers  of  immortal  songs.  I  regret  that  to  all  these  I  can  only 
make  this  general  acknowledgment. 

H,  K.  J. 
NEW  YORK,  January  4,  1881. 


CONTENTS, 


SONGS    OF    REMINISCENCE. 

AUTHOR.  COMPOSEK.  PAOK 

THE  LONG  AGO Bayly Bayly. 3 

OLD  DOG  TRAY Foster Foster 4 

AULD  LANG  SYNE Burns Thomson 7 

BI:N  BOLT English Kneass 9 

I    REMEMBER,    I    REMEMBER Hood BlocUey 12 

I  REMEMBER Praed Fitzgerald    14 

OH,  WOULD  I  WERE  A  BOY  AGAIN  ! Lemon Homer Ifi 

THE  OLD  OAKEN  BUCKET Woodworth Kiallmark 18 

THE  OLD  ARM-CHAIR Cook Russell 20 

WOODMAN,  SPARE  THAT  TREE Morris Russell 25 

WE    HAVE    LIVED    AM>    LOVED    TOGETHER JefferyS NlCOlo 29 

WE    HAVE    BEEN    FRIENDS    TOGETHER Norton RuSSell 30 

OFT    IN    THE    STILLY    NIGHT MoOTC MoOT6 32 

THE  LIGHT  OF  OTHER  DAYS Sunn Balfe 34 

BREAK,   BREAK,   BREAK Tennyson Dempster 37 

SONGS   OF   HOME. 

HOME,   SWEET  HOME Payne Old  air 41 

THE  INGLE  SIDE    ., Ainslie Wiesenthal 44 

MY  AIN  FIRESIDE Hamilton Old  air 46 

CASTLES  IN  THE  AIR Ballantine Anonymous 47 

WIFE,   CHILDKKN,  AND  FRIENDS Spencer Old  air 50 

THE  WOODPECKER Moore Kelly 52 

RAIN  ON  THE  ROOF Kinney Clark 50 

THE  BOATIE  Rows Ewen Ewen 59 

O  SWIFTLY  GLIDES  THE  BONNIE  BOAT  ! . Baillie Old  air 60 

MY  OLD  KENTUCKY  HOME Foster Foster 64 

TAK'  YER  AULD  CLOAK  ABOUT  YE Anonymous Old  air 66 

Do  THEY  MISS  ME  AT  HOME? Anonymous Orannis 68 

OLD  FOLKS  AT  HOME  ...    Foster Foster 69 

ROCK  ME  TO  SLEEP Allen Mueller 71 

THE  GRAVES  OF  A  HOUSEHOLD Remans Old  air 74 

SONGS   OF   EXILE. 

BAY  OF  DUBLIN Dufferin Old  air 79 

THE  OAK  AND  THE  ASH Anonymous Old  air 80 

LOCHABER  NO  MORE Ramsay Reilly 82 

THE  LAMENT  OF  TUB  IRISH  EMIGRANT Dufferin Dempster. 85 

ERIN  is  MY  HOME Bayly German  air 88 

PAT  MALLOY Boucicault Irish  air 89 

THE  EXILE  OF  ERIN. . .  Campbett Irish  air 91 

ISLE  OF  BEAUTY,   FARE  THEE  WELL  ! Bayly Rawlings 9.> 


viii  CONTENTS. 

AUTHOR.  COMPOSER.  PAGE 

MY  HEART  's  IN  THE  HIGHLANDS Bum* Old  air ....  97 

I'M  SADDEST  WHEN  I  SING Bayly Bishop 98 

IF  THOU  WERT  BY  MY  SIDE Ileber Nelson 99 

THE  CARRIER  DOVE Anonymous Johnson 100 

O,  TAKE  ME  BACK  TO  SWITZERLAND Norton Norton J  02 

THE  PILGRIM  FATHERS Hemans Browne 103 

CHEER,   BOYS,  CHEER Mackay Russell 105 

SONGS   OF   THE  SEA. 

THE  SEA Procter Neukomm, 109 

BARNEY  Bi  NTLINE Pitt Old  air 1 14 

THE  WHITE  SQUALL Johns  Barker 115 

THE  STORM Stevens Old  air 120 

THE  MINUTE  GUN  AT  SEA Sharpe King 1 22 

BLACK-EYED  SUSAN Gay Leveridge 125 

'TwAS  WHEN  THE  SEAS  WERE  ROARING Gay Handel 128 

A  LIFE  ON  THE  OCEAN  WAVE Sargent Russell 130 

A  WET  SHEET  AND  A  FLOWING  SEA Cunningham Old  air 13? 

THE  STORMY  PETREL Procter Neukomm 139 

ROCKAWAY Sharpe Russell 141 

WHAT  ARE  THE  WILD  WAVES  SAYING  ? Carpenter Glover 146 

TRANCADILLO   Oilman Brmrn. 151 

WAPPING  OLD  STAIRS Percy English  air 153 

THE  JOLLY  YOUNG  WATERMAN Dibdin Dibdin ]  57 

JAMIE'S  ON  THE  STORMY  SEA Anonymous Covert 15D- 

THE  LASS  THAT  LOVES  A  SAILOR Dibdin Dibdin 160 

POOR  TOM Dfl)din Dihdin 162 

TOM  BOWLING Dibdin Dibdin 163 

THE  ARETHUSA Hoare Carolan 167 

CAPTAIN  KIDD Anonymous Old  air 171 

THE  HEAVING  OF  THE  LEAD ~Pearce Shield 173 

THE  BAY  OF  BISCAY Cherry Davy 175 

POOR  JACK Dibdin. Dibdin ,   178 

THREE  FISHERS Kingsley Hullah 181 

ARE  THERE  TIDINGS  ?   Bayly Bishop 1 84 

TOE  SANDS  o'  DEE Kingsley Boott 187 

THE  PILOT Bayly Nelson 190 

TREASURES  OF  THE  DEEP flemans Arkicright 191 

ROCKED  IN  THE  CRADLE  OF  THE  DEEP Willard Knight 194 

SONGS   OF   NATURE. 

THE  BROOK Tennyson Anonymous 199 

SOME  LOVE  TO  ROAM Mackay Russell 202 

CANADIAN  BOAT  SONG.  .    Moore Old  air 204 

BRING  FLOWERS Remans English  air 206 

A  SOUTHERLY  WIND  AND  A  CLOUDY  SKY Anonymous Old  air 208 

THE  BRAVE  OLD  OAK Chorley ...  .Loder 209 

THE  IVY  GREEN Dickens Russell .210 

TYROLESE  EVENING  HYMN Hemans Arkwright 215 

SONGS   OF   SENTIMENT. 

THE  LAST  ROSE  OF  SUMMER Moore Old  air .219 

I'D   BE  A  BUTTERFLY Bayly Bayly 22 1 

TIIOSK  EVENING  BELLS Moore Old  air.  .  223 


CONTENTS.  'x- 

AUTHOR.                           COMFOSBB.  PAGE 

LET  ERIN   REMEMBER Moore Old  air 224 

DATS  OF  ABSENCE Rousseau Rousseau 226 

ERIN,   THE  TEAK Moore Old  air 227 

0,  SAY  NOT  THAT  MY  HEART  is  COLD Wolfe ;  Old  air 228 

TWILIGHT  DEWS Moore Moore 229 

STARS  OF  THE  SUMMER  NIGHT Longfellow.' Pease. 230 

MY  LIFE  is  LIKE  THE  SUMMER  ROSE Wilde Thibault 235 

LOVE  NOT Norton Blockley .-. . .  236 

COME,  PLAY  ME  THAT  SIMPLE  AIR Moore Labitzky 237 

LOVE'S  YOUNG  DREAM Moore Old  air 238 

WHEN  THE  NIGHT-WIND  BEWAILETH Sargent Dempster   .........  240 

EILEEN  AROON Griffin Old  air 241 

•Go,   FORGET  ME  ! Wolfe Mosart 243 

THE  FOUR-LEAVED  SHAMROCK Lover Lover ....  244 

THE  LASS  OF  RICHMOND  HILL McNally Hook 246 

THE  LASS  o'  GOWRIE.  .    Reid Scotch  air 248 

HAD  I  A  HEART  FOR  FALSEHOOD   FRAMED Sheridan.  . .    Irish  air 249 

THE  YOUNG  MAY  MOON. Moore Irish  air 250 

LOVE'S  KITORNELLA Planche Cooke 251 

DOWN  THE  BURN Crawford Maigh 253 

WHEN  THE  KYE  COMES  HAME .Hogg Scotch  air 255 

WHEN  STARS  ARE  IN  THE  QUIET  SKIES Bulwer. Anonymous 258 

KITTY  NEIL Waller. Irish  air 259 

PLY  NOT  YET Moore Irish  air 260 

'Too  LATE  I  STAYED Spencer Irish  air 262 

^Tis  MIDNIGHT  HOUR Anonymous Anonymous 263 

ROSLIN  CASTLE Hewit Scotch  air 264 

•COUNTY  GUY Scott Mozart 266 

THE  MEETING  OF  THE  WATERS Moore Irish  air 267 

FOR  THE  SAKE  o'  SOMEBODY Burns Scotch  air 268 

MAID  OF  ATHENS Byron Nathan 269 

0  NANNIE,   WILT  THOU  GANG  wi'  ME  ? Percy Carter 272 

NEAR  THE  LAKE Morris Horn 274 

BLUE-EYED  MARY Anonymous German  air 275 

THE  ROSE  THAT  ALL  ARE  PRAISING Bayly Loder 276 

'TWERE  VAIN  TO  TELL  THEE  ALL  I  FEEL Wade Swiss  air 277 

THE  CARRIER  PIGEON Percival Moron 278 

THE  BLUE  JUNIATA Sullivan Sullivan 279 

WHAT  WILL  YOU  DO,  LOVE  ? Lover Lover 280 

SHE  WORE  A  WREATH  OF  ROSES Bayly Knight 281 

I'LL  HANG  MY  HARP  ON  A  WILLOW  TREE Anonymous Guernsey 284 

THE  INDIAN'S  DEATH-SONG Hunter Anonymous 285 

0    BOYS,     CARRY    ME    'LONG Foster Foster 286 

MASSA'S  IN  DE  COLD,   COLD  GROUND Foster Foster 287 

SONGS  OF   HOPELESS  LOVE. 

AULD  ROBIN  GRAY Barnard Leeves 291 

'TiS    SAID    THAT    ABSENCE    CONQUERS    LOVE ThomOS ThomOS 296 

MARION  MOORE Clark  Clark 297 

THE  MISTLETOE  BOUGH Bayly Bayly 299 

ALLAN  WATER Lewis Horn 300 

MARY  OF  THE  WILD  MOOR Turner  Turner 303 

WHAT  AILS  THIS  HEART  o'  MINE  ? Blamire Old  air 304 

WHEN  OTHER  FRIENDS  ARE  ROUND  THEE Morris Anonymous 305 


x  CONTENTS. 

AUTHOR.  COMPOSER.  PAGE 

ARABT'S   DAUGHTER * Moore Kiullmark 307 

M  ARY'S  DREAM Lowe Old  air 809- 

CONN  EL,  AND  FLORA Wilson Old  air...   311 

TRUE  LOVE  CAN  NE'ER  FORGET Lover Lover 3.1 3- 

.1  E ANIE  MORRISON Motherwell Dempster k 814 

AE  FOND  KISS : Burns Old  air. 81? 

THERE'S  NAE  ROOM  FOR  TWA Danby. . Satter 318- 

THE  WAEFU'   HEART Blamire Old  air 320 

HERE'S  A  HEALTH  TO  ANE  I  LO'E  DEAR Burns Old  air 321 

AFTON  WATER • Burns Spilman 322 

THE  BRAES  o'  GLENIFFER Tannahill Old  air 324 

THE  BUSH  ABOON  TRAQUAIR Crawford Old  air 326 

BARBARA  ALLAN Unknown Old  air 32? 

SAVOURNEEN   DEELISH Colman Old  air 330 

LORI>  ULLIN'S  DAUGHTER Campbell Thomson 331 

KATHLEEN  MAVOURNEEN Crawford Crouch 333 

JEANNETTE  AND  JEANNOT Jefferys Glover 338 

THE  BRIDAL  OF  ANDALLA Lockhart Arkwright 34o 

BONNIE  DOON Burns Old  air 34£ 

BOUNDING  BILLOWS,  CEASE  YOUR  MOTION Robinson Old  air 345 

ROLL  ON,  SILVER  MOON Turner Turner 347 

WE  MET,  'TWAS  IN  A  CROWD Bayly Bayly 349 

AND  YE  SHALL  WALK  IN  SILK  ATTIRE Blamire Old  air. 351 

THOU   HAST    WOUNDED    THE    SPIRIT  THAT   LOVED   THEE.  .Porter Porter 352 

OH,  NO,   WE  NEVER  MENTION  HER Bayly French  air 354 

ROBIN  ADAIR Keppel Old  air 355 

SHE  is  FAR  FROM  THE  LAND Moore Old  air 357 

HIGHLAND  MARY Burns. Scotch  air  359 

SONGS   OF   HAPPY   LOVE. 

THE  BROOKSIDE Mttnes Sine 363 

ANNIE  LAURIE Douglas Scott 364 

THE  WELCOME Davis Irish  air 360 

WANDERING  WILLIE Burns Old  air 368 

SALLY  IN  OUR  ALLEY Carey Old  air 869 

JOCK  o'  HAZELDEAN Scott Old  air 371 

JESSIE,  THE  FLOWER  o'  DUMBLANE Tannahill Smith 372 

MEET  ME  BY  MOONLIGHT Wade Wade ...   374 

SAW  YE  MY  WEE  THING  ? Macneitt. Old  air 376 

THE  ROSE  OF  ALLANDALE Jefferys Nelson 379 

KIND  ROBIN  LO'ES  ME Unknown Old  air 380 

I  LO'ED  NE'ER  A  LADDIE  BUT  ANE Macneill Old  air. 381 

MARY  OF  ARGYLE Jefferys Nelson 382 

THE  BIRKS  OF  ABERFELDY Burns Old  air 384 

THE  LASS  o'  PATIE'S  MILL Ramsay Old  air 386 

THE  LEA  RIG Burns Old  air .  886 

THE  BRAES  o'  BALQUHIDDER Tannahill Smith 387 

OH,  TAKE  HER,  BUT  BE  FAITHFUL  STILL Jefferys Nelson 389 

MY  WIFE'S  A  WINSOME  WEE  THING Burns Old  air. 390 

THE  ANGEL'S  WHISPER Lover Old  air 392 

WE'RE  A'  NODDIN Unknown Old  air 39:> 

NAE  LUCK  ABOUT  THE  HOUSE , Adam Old  air 394 

TOUCH  us  GENTLY,  TIME Procter English  air 398 

JOHN  ANDERSON,  MY  jo Burns Old  air.    .  39'J 


CONTENTS.  xi 

SONGS   OF   PLEASANTRY. 

AUTHOR.  COMPOSER.  PAGE 

OOMIN'  THROUGH  THE  RYE Unknown Old  air 403 

THE  LOW-BACKED  CAR Lover Lover 404 

GREEN  GROW  THE  RASHES,   O Burns Old  air 406 

MOLLY  CAREW Lover Old  air 407 

WITHIN  A  MILE  OF  EDINBORO' D1  Urfey Hooke 410 

WIDOW  MACHREE Lover Lover   412 

DUNCAN  GRAY Burns Old  air 4U5 

RORY  O'MoRE. .' Lover Lover 415 

THE  LAIRD  o'  COCKPEN Nairne Old  air 417 

KATE  KEARNEY Morgan Old  air 418 

O    WHISTLE,    AND     I'LL    COME    TO   YOU,    MY   LAD Bums. BrUCC 420 

ROY'S  WIFE  OF  ALDIVALLOCH Grant Goto 421 

LOVELY  MARY  DONNELLY Allingham Barker 423 

COME,  HASTE  TO  THE  WEDDING Unknown Arne 426 

WEEL  MAY  THE  KEEL  ROW Unknown Old  air 428 

WAIT  FOR  THE  WAGON Unknown Buckley 429 

THE  GROVES  OF  BLARNEY Millikin Unknown 431 

A  FROG  HE  WOULD  A  WOOING  GO   ,  White Scotch  air 434 

THE  FINE  OLD  ENGLISH  GENTLEMAN Hewer Old  air 435 

OLD  KING  COLE  . . . . : Unknown. . . Old  air 439 

SAINT  PATRICK  WAS  A  GENTLEMAN Bennett  and  Toleken .  Irish  air 441 

THE  ROAST  BEEF  OF  OLD  ENGLAND Leveridge Leveridge 442 

BUY  A  BROOM Unknown German  air 444 

ROBINSON  CRUSOE Cussam Unknown 444 

THE  BOWLD  SOJER  BOY Lover Irish  air 446 

THE  CORK  LEG Blewitt Blewitt 447 

CONVIVIAL   SONGS. 

SPARKLING  AND  BRIGHT Hoffman Taylor 451 

SMOKING  AWAY Finch Taylor 453 

BEGONE  !    DULL  CARE Unknown Old  air 454 

COME,  LANDLORD,  FILL  THE  FLOWING  BOWL Fletcher Old  air  . . .- 455 

How  STANDS  THE  GLASS  AROUND  ? Unknown Unknown 456 

FILL  THE  BUMPER  FAIR Moore Old  air 457 

ONE  BUMPER  AT  PARTING Moore Old  air 459 

DRINK  TO  ME  ONLY  WITH  THINE  EYES Jonsvn Mozart 460 

FAREWELL  !  BUT  WHENEVER Moore Old  air 461 

THE  MEETING Moore Moore 463 

REASONS  FOR  DRINKING Morris Dibdin 464 

OH,  THINK  NOT  MY  SPIRITS Moore Old  air 467 

THE  YEAR  THAT'S  AW  A' Dunlop Old  air 469 

POLITICAL    SONGS. 

TIPPECANOE  AND  TYLER  TOO Ross Old  air 473 

JOHN  BROWN'S  BODY Hall Unknown 476 

MARYLAND,  MY  MARYLAND Randall German  air 478 

WAKE  NICODEMUS Work Work 480 

WHA'LL  BE  KING  BUT  CHARLIE  ? Nairne Old  air 484 

CHARLIE  is  MY  DARLING Nairne Old  air 486 

WHAT'S  A'  THE  STEER,  KIMMER  ? Unknown Unknown 488 

WEARING  OF  THE  GREEN Boucicault Old  air 488 

YES,  THE  DIE  is  CAST Pestel Pestel 491 

TULLOCHGORUM.  .  ..Skinner..  ..  Old  air    .  ...    492 


xii  CONTENTS. 

MARTIAL   AND   PATRIOTIC   SONGS. 

AUTHOR.  COMPOSM.  PAGE 

BONNIE  DUNDEE Scott Old  air 49? 

HAIL  TO  THE  CHIEF  ! Scott Bishop 499 

THE  BLUE  BELLS  OF  SCOTLAND Grant Jordan 501 

THE  GIRL  I  LEFT  BEHIND  ME Unknown Old  air 508 

THE  SOLDIER'S  TEAR Bayly Lee 504 

THE  DASHING  WHITE  SERGEANT Unknown Bishop 605 

THE  GALLANT  TROUBADOUR Unknown French  air 508 

DUNOIS  THE  BRAVE Queen  Hortense Queen  Hortense 509 

THE  MARCH  OF  THE  CAMERON  MEN Campbell Old  air 510 

1  SEE  THEM  ON  THEIR  WINDING  WAY Heber Old  air 512 

THE  CAMPBELLS  ARE  COMIN' Unknown Old  air 513 

To  GREECE  WE  GIVE  OUR  SHINING  BLADES Moore Bishop 515 

SCOTS,  WHA  HAE  wi'  WALLACE  BLED Burns Old  air 516 

BLUE  BONNETS  OVER  THE  BORDER Scott Old  air 518 

THE  SOLDIER'S  RETURN Burns Old  air 515> 

GAILY  THE  TROUBADOUR Bayly Bayly 521 

THE  MINSTREL'S  RETURN Scott Old  air 522 

THE  MINSTREL  BOY Moore Old  air 523 

TENTING  ON  THE  OLD  CAMP  GROUND — Kittredge Kittredge 524 

TUB  SOLDIER'S  DREAM. Campbell Attwood 527 

THE  CAPTIVE  KNIGHT Hemans Arkwright 533 

THE  BATTLE  PRAYER Kfirner Himmel 535 

BINOEN  ON  THE  RHINE Norton Hutchinson 537 

THE  HEATH  THIS  NIGHT Scott Masasinghi 541 

THE  WOUNDED  HUSSAR Campbell Hewitt 543 

THE  DEATH  OF  WARREN Sargent Dempster 544 

THE  SWORD  OF  BUNKER  HILL Wallace Covert 552 

THE  DEATH  OF  NELSON .Arnold Braham 553 

THE  GRAVE  OF  BONAPARTE Washburn Heath 558 

THE  BURIAL  OF  SIR  JOHN  MOORE Wolfe Barnett 560 

ALL  QUIET  ALONG  THE  POTOMAC Beers Dayton 56:? 

AFTER  THE  BATTLE   Moore Old  air 565 

WHFLE  HISTORY'S  MUSE Moore Old  air 567 

THE  HARP  THAT  ONCE  THRO'  TABA's  HALLS Moore Old  air 568 

FLOWERS  OF  THE  FOREST Elliot Old  air 569 

THE  TIGHT  LITTLE  ISLAND Dibdin Reeve 571 

YE  MARINERS  OF  ENGLAND  Campbell Callcott 573 

BATTLE  OF  THE  BALTIC Campbell Purday 574 

RULE,  BRITANNIA  ! Mallet Arne 576 

GOD  SAVE  THE  KING Unknown Bull 578 

DIXIE , .( . . .  Pike Unknown 580 

YANKEE  DOODLE Unknown Unknown 583 

HAIL,   COLUMBIA  ! .Hopkinson Phyla 586 

ADAMS  AND  LIBERTY Paine Arnold 589 

THE   STAR-SPANGLED  BANNER Key Arnold 592 

MY  COUNTRY,  'TIS  OF  THEE Smith Unknown 595 

MORAL   AND   RELIGIOUS  SONGS. 

THE  SPIDER  AND  THE  FLY Howitt Old  air 599 

THE  FLOWERS  OF  THE  FOREST , Cockburn Unknown 601 

A  MAN'S  A  MAN  FOR  A'  THAT Burns Scotch  air. 603 

THERE'S  A  GOOD  TIME  COMING Mackay English  air 604 

CALLER  HERRIN'  . .  .Xairne . .  .  .  Gow . .  HOG 


CONTENTS.  xiii 

AUTHOB.  COMPOSER.  PAOB 

THE  ARROW  AND  THK  SONG Longj'ellow Balfe 6Ul> 

THE  CARRIER  BIRD Moore Bruce 613 

THE  BEGGAR  GIRL Anonymous Piercy 014 

Too  LATE Tennyson Lindsay 015 

EVENING  SONG  TO  THE  VIRGIN Hemans Old  air 619 

THE   RAINY  DAY , Longfellow. .    .    Dempster 620 

MY  MOTHER'S  BIBLE Morris Russell 622 

THE  INQUIRY Mackay Oorrin  624 

THE  BETTER  LAND  . .    Hemans Arkwright 628 

THERE'S  NOTHING  TRUE  BUT  HEAVEN Moore Shaw 629 

THE  PAUPER'S  DRIVE Noel HutcMnson 630 

THE  OLD  SEXTON Benjamin Russell 632 

GERMAN  WATCHMAN'S  SONG Anonymous Heffeman 636 

ALL'S  WELL  ! Dibdin Braham 637 

As    DOWN    IN   THE    SUNLESS    RETREATS Moore Shaw 639 

WHEN  SHALL  WE  THREE  MEET  AGAIN  ? Unknown Doubtful 642 

THE  MESSENGER  BIRD Hemans Arkwright 644 

THE  LAND  o'  THE  LEAL Naime Old  air 648 

GOOD  NIGHT,   AND  JOY  BE  wi'  YE  A'  ! Boswell Old  air. 649 

INDEX..  .- .  6M* 


SONGS  OF  REMINISCENCE. 


Sing  to  your  sons  those  melodies, 
The  songs  your  fathers  loved. 

—  Felicia  Reman*. 


When  time  has  passed,  and  seasons  fled, 

Your  hearts  will  feel  like  mine, 
And  aye  the  song  will  maist  delight 

That  minds  ye  o'  lang  syne. 

—  Susanna  Blamire. 


The  portal  soon  was  opened,  for  in  the  land  of  Song 
The  minstrel  at  the  outer  gate  yet  never  lingered  long, 

jLnd  inner  doors  were  seldom  closed  'gainst  wand'rers  such  as  be  " 
For  locks  or  hearts  to  open  soon,  sweet  Music  is  the  key. 

—  Samuel  Lovtr* 


Sing  again  the  song  you  sung 
When  we  were  together  young, 
When  there  were  but  you  and  I 
Underneath  the  summer  sky. 
Sing  the  song,  and  o'er  and  o'er, 
Though  I  know  that  never  more 
Will  it  seem  the  song  you  sung 
When  we  were  together  young. 

—  George  Wittiam  Curtit. 


SONGS  OF  REMINISCENCE, 


THE    LONG   AGO. 

THE  author  of  "The  Long  Ago"  was  a  dramatist,  novelist,  and  poet,  but  was 
preeminently  successful  as  a  writer  and  composer  of  sweet  and  singable  songs.  His  verse 
is  tuneful  and  tender,  his  airs  musical  and  delicate,  and  both  are  pervaded  by  a  spirit 
of  purity. 

THOMAS  HATNES  BAYLY  was  born  at  Bath,  England,  on  the  13th  of  October,  1797,  and 
was  the  only  child  of  wealthy  parents.  At  the  age  of  seven  he  delighted  an  admiring  circle 
of  titled  relations  by  writing  rhymes,  which  were  unusually  good.  As  a  schoolboy  the 
young  poet  was  a  comparative  failure,  if  judged  by  the  debits  and  credits  of  the  teacher's 
record;  he  loved  only  to  dramatize  his  history  lessons  and  rhyme  the  rules  of  his  arithmetic. 

At  seventeen,  he  resisted  his  father's  attempt  to  make  him  a  lawyer,  and  after  several 
years  of  home  life,  during  which  he  produced  literary  work  that  gained  popular  favor  to 
some  extent,  he  went  to  Oxford  to  study  for  the  church.  But  the  theological  student 
proved  as  wayward  as  the  schoolboy,  and  the  deeper  romance  of  love  took  the  place  of  his 
early  rhymings.  Mr.  Bayly  married  a  wealthy  and  gifted  lady,  and  for  six  years  they 
lived  in  a  charming  country  house,  when  their  little  boy  was  taken  from  them,  and 
they  were  overwhelmed  by  financial  ruin.  The  poet's  health  was  shattered  by  these  dis- 
asters ;  and  when  the  exercise  of  his  pen,  which  had  been  a  pastime,  became  a  necessity, 
it  would  not  move  with  its  accustomed  freedom.  They  had  two  daughters,  and  the  con- 
stant fear  that  he  should  lose  entirely  the  power  to  compose  the  little  songs  of  love  and 
pathos  and  social  life,  which  now  furnished  their  support,  so  wrought  upon  him  that  the 
worst  was  realized.  He  was  attacked  by  brain  fever,  from  which  he  rallied  only  to  sink 
beneath  another  painful  disease.  The  beauty  of  his  soul  shone  forth  amid  the  sufferings  of 
mind  and  body,  and  the  loving  spirit  of  one  of  England's  sweetest  song- writers  rested  in 
peace  and  joy  when  he  was  but  forty-two  years  of  age,  April  22,  1839. 

Mr.  Bayly's  poems  were  first  collected  in  this  country,  and  edited  by  Rufus  W.  Gris- 
wold  (Philadelphia,  1843).  The  edition  was  incomplete,  but  it  was  a  long  time  before  his 
own  country  possessed  one  as  good.  Many  of  the  songs  were  written  originally  for  pub- 
lishers or  composers  who  held  the  copyright.  Mrs.  Bayly  finally  published  her  husband's 
poems,  with  a  biography,  in  two  volumes. 


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D.  C.  Let    me      be-lieve  that  vou    love       as  you  loved,  (  Omit.) 
2    f  Do     you     re-mem  -her,  the    path  where  we   met,    Long,  1< 
{  Ah,   yes,  you  told    me   you    ne'er  would  for  -get,  (Omit.) 
D.  C.  Still    my  heart  treasures  the    prais  -  es      I  heard,  (Omit.) 
,    fTho'  by  your  kind-ness  my     fond  hopes  were  rais'd,  Long,  Ic 
(  You,  by  more  el   -   o-  quent  lips     have  been  praised,  (  Omi 
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OUR  FAMILIAR  SONGS. 
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There  is  another  familiar  set  of  words  which  seems  to  be  altered  from  Mr.  Bayly's,  and 
Is  sung  to  the  same  air. 


Tell  me  the  tale  of  the  friends  you  have  loved, 

Long,  long  ago,  long  ago, 
Tell  me  of  those  by  whose  side  you  have  roved, 

Long,  long  ago,  long  ago. 
Say  were  your  playmates  as  blithe  and  as  gay, 
Joyous  as  those  I  have  been  with  to-day  ? 
Who  were  the  children  you  met  in  your  play, 

Long,  long  ago,  long  ago? 


What  were  the  pleasures  you  gathered  at  home, 

Long,  long  ago,  long  ago? 
Where  were  the  meadows  enticed  you  to  roam 

Long,  long  ago,  long  ago? 
Mother,  sweet  mother,  why  starteth  that  tear? 
Tell  me  the  tale  you  delighted  to  hear 
Told  by  the  friends  that  to  you  were  so  dear, 

Long,  long  ago,  long  ago. 


OLD    DOG   TRAY. 

WHO  is  not  familiar  with  "  Old  Uncle  Ned,"  "  Swanee  Kibber,"  "  Massa's  in  de  cold, 
cold  ground,"  "Old  Dog  Tray,"  and  "0,  boys,  carry  me  'long?"  But  how  many  know  any- 
thing of  the  life  of  the  extraordinary  man  who  wrote  them?  He  must  have  passed  unnoticed 
through  the  streets  when  from  every  lighted  concert-room,  from  almost  every  family  circle, 
from  every  hand-organ  or  roaming  ballad-singer's  lips,  were  poured  forth  his  irresistible 
melodies.  He  wrote  between  two  hundred  and  three  hundred  popular  songs — more  than 
any  other  American ;  and  though  they  are  not  of  equal  popularity  or  merit,  we  have  yet  to 
hear  one  which  is  devoid  of  meaning  in  the  words,  or  beauty  in  the  air. 

STEPHEN  COLLINS  FOSTER  was  born  in  Pittsburgh,  Perm.,  July  4,  1826.  He  was  a  musi- 
cian almost  from  his  cradle,  and  at  the  age  of  seven  had  mastered  the  flageolet  without  a 
teacher.  Every  instrument  in  turn  gave  up  its  sweetness  to  his  touch ;  but  he  never  cared 
to  become  a  distinguished  performer.  To  compose  the  words  and  music  of  a  song  was  his 
chief  delight  from  boyhpod.  He  wrote  the  words  first,  and  then  hummed  them  over  and 
over  till  he  found  notes  that  would  express  them  properly.  His  first  published  song  ap- 
peared in  1842,  when  he  was  a  merchant's  clerk  in  Cincinnati;  a  second  was  published  the 
same  year  in  Baltimore.  The  success  of  these  impelled  him  to  give  up  business  and  devote 
himself  to  composition  for  a  livelihood.  He  returned  to  Pittsburgh,  where  he  married. 
Mr.  Foster  had  a  wide  range  of  culture,  was  an  eager  reader,  and  proficient  in  French  and 
German,  and  was  somewhat  of  a  painter.  The  few  who  became  his  intimates  speak  most 
enthusiastically  of  his  varied  powers ;  but  he  was  retiring  and  sensitive.  He  attempted  to 
illustrate  one  of  his  pathetic  songs,  and  handed  the  sketch  with  the  manuscript  to  his  pub- 
lisher, who  looked  at  it  a  moment,  and  said  pleasantly,  "Oh!  another  comic  song,  Mr. 
Poster !"  The  artist  tore  up  the  sketch,  and  made  no  more  pictures  for  the  public. 


OLD  DOQ    TRAY.  5 

It  has  been  said  that  Foster  i  515,000  for  "  Old  Folks  at  Home."    This  is  incor- 

reci ,-  but  one  pnuusumg  house  paid  mm  nearly  $20,000  for  those  of  his  compositions  which 
were  issued  by  them.  His  songs  have  been  translated  into  most  of  the  European  and  some 
of  the  Asiatic  languages. 

Mr.  Foster  spent  his  last  years  in  New  York,  where  the  most  familiar  sound  was  a 
strain  of  his  own  music,  and  the  least  familiar  sight  a  face  that  he  knew.  He  became 
somewhat  improvident,  and  would  sell  for  a  few  dollars  a  song  that  brought  a  large  sum 
to  its  purchaser.  Several  of  his  best  were  composed  in  a  back  room  of  an  old  down-town 
grocery,  on  pieces  of  brown  wrapping-paper.  He  died  in  a  hospital  to  which  he  had  been 
carried  from  a  hotel  in  the  Bowery,  January  18,  1864. 

Of  "  Old  Dog  Tray,"  125,000  copies  were  sold  in  eighteen  months. 


By  special  permission  of  Messrs.  WILLIAM  A,  POND  &  Co. 


£ 


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Grief     can- not  drive  him  a -way, 


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3.  When  thoughts  recall  the  past,      His  eyes  are  on    me  cast;  I  know     that      he  feels        what  my 


all    pass'd  away  ,Their  happy  smiles  have  flown,Their  gentle  voices  gone  ;  I've  nothing  left  but  old  dog  Tray. 
breaking  heart  would  say  :  Although  he  cannot  speak,!'!!  vainly,vainly  seek,A  better  friend  than  old  dog  Tray. 


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AULD    LANG    SYNE.  7 

AULD    LANG    SYNE. 

ROBERT  BURNS  was  horn  near  Ayr,  Scotland,  January  25,  1759.  and  died  in  Dumfries 
on  the  21st  day  of  July,  1796.  His  loves  and  his  sorrows,  his  joys  and  his  revelings,  are  as 
well  known  as  his  "Highland  Mary"  and  his  "Auld  Lang  Syne."  Here  is  his  own  account 
of  his  first  love  and  his  first  song :  "  You  know  our  country  custom  of  coupling  a  man  and 
woman  together  as  partners  in  the  labors  of  harvest.  In  my  fifteenth  autumn,  my  partner 
was  a  bewitching  creature,  a  year  younger  than  myself.  My  scarcity  of  English  denies  me 
the  power  of  doing  her  justice  in  that  language;  but  you  know  the  Scottish  idiom — she 
was  a  bonnie,  sweet,  sonsie  lass.  In  short,  she  altogether,  unwittingly  to  herself,  initiated 
me  in  that  delicious  passion,  which,  in  spite  of  acid  disappointment,  gin-horse  prudence, 
and  book- worm  philosophy,  I  hold  to  be  the  first  of  human  joys,  our  dearest  blessing  here 
below !  How  she  caught  the  contagion,  I  cannot  tell ;  you  medical  people  talk  much  of 
infection  from  breathing  the  same  air,  the  touch,  &c. ;  but  I  never  expressly  said  I  loved 
her.  Indeed,  I  did  not  know  myself  why  I  liked  so  much  to  loiter  behind  with  her,  when 
returning  in  the  evening  from  our  labors;  why  the  tones  of  her  voice  made  my  heart- 
strings thrill  like  an  JMian  harp ;  and,  particularly,  why  my  pulse  beat  such  a  furious  rattan 
when  I  looked  and  fingered  over  her  little  hand,  to  pick  out  the  cruel  nettle-stings  and 
thistles.  Among  her  other  love-inspiring  qualities,  she  sung  sweetly ;  and  it  was  her  favor- 
ite reel  to  which  I  attempted  giving  an  embodied  vehicle  in  rhyme.  I  was  not  so  presump- 
tuous as  to  imagine  I  could  make  verses  like  printed  ones  composed  by  men  who  had 
jreek  and  Latin ;  but  my  girl  sung  a  song,  which  was  said  to  be  composed  by  a  small 
country  laird's  sou,  on  one  of  his  father's  maids,  with  whom  he  was  in  love !  and  I  saw  no 
reason  why  I  might  not  rhyme  as  well  as  he ;  for,  excepting  that  he  could  smear  sheep; 
and  cast  peats,  his  father  living  in  the  moor-lands,  he  had  no  more  scholar  craft  than  myself." 

Of  the  world-famous  "  Auld  Lang  Syne,"  only  the  second  and  third  stanzas  were  writ- 
ten by  Burns,  although  he  retouched  them  all.  A  song  bearing  that  title  can  be  traced  in 
broadsides  to  the  latter  part  of  1600,  and  the  phrase  "  auld  lang  syne,"  was  current  in  the 
time  of  Charles  I.  Allan  Ramsay  wrote  an  inferior  set  of  words  to  the  original  air,  be- 
ginning— 

"  Should  auld  acquaintance  be  forgot, 
Though  thev  return  with  scars  ?" 


In  a  letter  to  Mrs.  Dunlop,  dated  December  17,  1788,  Burns  says:  "Your  meeting, 
which  you  so  well  describe,  with  your  old  school-fellow  and  friend,  was  truly  interesting. 
Out  upon  the  ways  of  the  world ! — they  spoil  these  '  social  offspring  of  the  heart.'  Two 
reterans  of  the  'men  of  the  world'  would  have  met  with  little  more  heart- workings  than 
TWO  hacks  worn  out  on  the  road.  Apropos,  is  not  the  Scotch  phrase,  '  auld  lang  syne' 
exceedingly  expressive  ?  There  is  an  old  song  and  tune  which  has  often  thrilled  through 
my  soul ;  I  shall  give  you  the  verses  in  the  other  sheet.  Light  be  the  turf  on  the  breast  of 
the  heaven-inspired  poet  who  composed  this  glorious  fragment !"  It  is  impossible  to  tell 
which  set  of  words  with  this  refrain  Burns  refers  to  in  his  letter  to  Mrs.  Dunlop ;  for  there 
are  at  least  three  which  antedate  his.  Here  is  the  best,  given  by  Chambers,  in  his  "  Scot- 
tish Songs."  It  bears  the  date  1716  : 


Should  old  acquaintance  be  forgot, 

And  never  thought  upon, 
The  flames  of  love  extinguished. 

And  fully  past  and  gone  ? 
Is  thy  kind  heart  now  grown  so  cold 

In  that  loving  breast  of  thine, 
That  thou  canst  never  once  reflect 

On  Old  Long  Syne  ? 


Where  are  thy  protestations, 

Thy  vows,  and  oathes,  my  dear, 
Thou  mad'st  to  me,  and  I  to  thee, 

In  regester  yet  clear? 
Is  faith  and  truth  so  violate 

To  the  immortal  gods  divine, 
That  thou  canst  never  once  reflect 

On  Old  Long  Syne  ? 


8  OUlt   FAMILIAK   SONGS. 

In  another  letter,  to  George  Thomson,  who  is  intimately  associated  with  Burns  and 
Scottish  music,  dated  September,  1793,  Burns  says:  "One  song  more,  and  I  have  done— 
'Auld  Lang  Syne.'  The  air  is  but  mediocre ;  but  the  following  song,  the  old  song  of  the 
olden  times,  and  which  has  never  been  in  print,  nor  even  in  manuscript,  until  I  took  it  down 
from  an  old  man's  singing,  is  enough  to  recommend  any  air."  Mr.  Thomson  set  the  words 
to  an  old  Lowland  melody,  entitled  "  I  fee'd  a  lad  at  Michaelmas,"  and  together  they  make 
our  Old  Long  Since. 


l»o    for-got,  And    days      o'    lang    -    *\\\<-':  For        auld 


-    syne,    my  dear.  For 


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\\V  twa  ha<-  run  about  the  bra- •>. 

And  pu'd  the  gowans  fine ; 
But  we've  wander'd  mony  H  \v.-ary  foot. 

Sin'  auld  lang  syne. 

For  auld  lang  syne,  etc. 

We  twa  hae  paidl't  in  the  burn 

Fne  morning  sun  till  <lin>  : 
But  Aeas  between  us  braid  hae  r<mr'<i 

Sin'  auld  lang  syne. 

For  anld  lang  syno.  fir. 


And  there's  a  hand,  my  trusty  frieti', 

And  gie's  a  hand  o'  thine  ; 
And  we'll  tak'  a  right  gude  willy-waught 

For  auld  lang  syne. 

For  auld  lang  syne,  etc. 

And  surely  ye'll  be  your  pint  stoup, 

As  surely  I'll  be  mine !  . 
And  we'll  tak'  a  cup  o'  kindness  yet, 

For  auld  lang  syne. 

For  auld  lang  sync,  etc. 


I'.KX   BOLT.  9 

BEN    BOLT. 

THE  name  of  DR.  THOMAS  DUNN  ENGLISH  is  familiar  to  the  readers  of  the  past  forty 
years;  but  I  think  it  has  not  generally  been  associated  with  this  widely  popular  song.  The 
music  appeared  with  only  the  composer's  name  attached,  and  that  has  always  been  given 
incorrectly. 

Dr.  English  was  born  in  Philadelphia,  June  29,  1819.  He  received  the  degree  of  M.  D. 
from  the  University  of  Pennsylvania  in  1839,  was  called  to  the  bar  in  1842,  and  has  been  a 
practising  physician  at  Fort  Lee,  New  Jersey,  since  1859.  He  was  for  years  devoted  to  lit- 
erary pursuits,  as  author,  editor,  and  contributor  to  various  periodicals.  His  vigorous 
poem,  "The  Gallows-Goers/'  made  a  great  sensation  about  1845,  when  capital  punishment 
was  an  exciting  subject  of  popular  debate.  A  selection  from  his  historical  poems  has 
recently  (1880)  been  published  in  New  York,  under  the  title  of  "American  Ballads." 

"  Ben  Bolt"  was  written  in  1842.  Its  author  was  visiting  in  New  York,  and  N.  P.  Willis, 
who  with  George  P.  Morris  was  editing  the  New  Mirror,  asked  him  for  a  gratuitous  con- 
tribution, and  suggested  that  it  be  a  sea-song.  Dr.  English  promised  one,  and  on  returning 
to  his  home,  attempted  to  make  good  his  word.  Only  one  line  that  smacked  of  the  sea 
came  at  his  bidding ;  but  at  a  white  heat  he  composed  the  five  stanzas  of  "  Ben  Bolt,"  as  it 
now  reads,  betraying  the  original  intention  in  the  last  line  of  the  last  stanza.  Within  a 
year  the  poem  had  been  reprinted  in  England,  and  its  author  then  thought  it  might  be  a 
still  greater  favorite  if  set  to  appropriate  music.  Dominick  M.  H.  Hay  wrote  an  air  for  it, 
which  was  never  printed ;  and  Dr.  English  wrote  one  himself,  which,  although  printed,  had 
no  sale.  It  was  written  entirely  for  the  black  keys.  In  1 848,  a  play  was  brought  out  in 
Pittsburgh,  Penn.,  called  "The  Battle  of  Buena  Vista,"  in  which  the  song  of  "Ben  Bolt" 
was  introduced.  A.  M.  Hunt,  an  Englishman,  connected  with  western  journalism,  had  read 
the  words  in  an  English  newspaper,  and  gave  them  from  memory  to  NELSON  KNEASS, 
filling  in  from  his  imagination  where  his  memory  failed.  Kneass  adapted  a  German  melody 
to  the  lines,  and  they  were  sung  in  the  play.  The  drama  died,  but  the  song  survived.  A 
music  publisher  of  Cincinnati  obtained  the  copyright,  and  it  was  the  business  success  of 
his  career.  In  theatres,  concert-rooms,  minstrel-shows,  and  private  parlors  nothing  was 
heard  but  "  Ben  Bolt."  It  was  ground  on  hand-organs,  and  whistled  in  the  streets,  and 
"  Sweet  Alice"  became  the  pet  of  the  public.  A  steamboat  in  the  West,  and  a  ship  in  the 
East,  were  named  after  her.  The  steamer  was  blown  up,  and  the  ship  was  wrecked ;  but 
Alice  floated  safely  in  the  fragile  bark  of  song.  The  poem  went  abroad,  and  obtained  great 
popularity  in  England.  The  streets  of  London  were  flooded  with  parodies,  answers,  and 
imitations,  printed  on  broadsides,  and  sung  and  sold  by  curbstone  minstrels.  A  play  was 
written  there,  based  upon  it,  and  as  late  as  1877  a  serial  novel  ran  through  a  London 
weekly  paper  of  note,  in  which  the  memories  evoked  by  the  singing  of  "  Ben  Bolt "  played 
n  prominent  part  in  evolving  the  catastrophe. 

NELSON  KNEASS  (not  Nicholas,  as  the  name  has  been  generally  printed),  came  of  a  good 
family,  but  preferred  a  semi- vagrant  life.  He  was  a  teacher  of  music  in  New  York,  and  a 
singer  in  the  Park  Theatre,  and  afterward  became  a  negro  minstrel.  He  married  a  Mrs. 
Sharpe,  who  lost  her  life  by  falling  overboard  from  a  Mississippi  steamboat.  He  was  a  jolly, 
companionable  fellow,  "  nobody's  enemy  but  his  own,"  and  ended  a  precarious  existence 
in  poverty.  He  always  complained  that  he  received  but  a  trifle  for  the  music.  The  author 
of  the  words,  in  true  authorly  fashion,  never  received  anything,  not  even  a  copy  of  the 
published  song,  and  when  he  complained  of  mutilation  in  the  words,  he  was  told  that  they 
were  decidedly  improved !  I  give  the  original  stanzas  complete. 


10 


OUR    FAMILIAR    .SONGS. 


1.    Oh:  don't    you    remember    sweet  Al-ice,     Ben  Bolt—    Sweet  Al    -    ice  whose  hair    was      so 

fc= 


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3E^EE3EEJEEPJ 


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brown. 


Who  wept     with   delight,  when  you  gave  her         a   smile,  And 


35         ^ 


f  •  -9 


trembled     with  fear   at  vour  frown. 


In  the  old  church  yard,  in  the  valley,  Ben  Bolt,ln  a 


-!••»••*•  •* 


--*— -fc 


3gE 


13- 


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cor-ner       ob-scure    and     a  -  lone, 


They  have  fit  -  ted  a     slab  of    the 


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BEN -BOLT. 


11 


granite         so  gray,  And  sweet  Alice        lies  un  -  der    the  stone, 


dFi3=4=|E3 

-*•        -*•        -0-       -0- 


— r* — E — 

— J-T-y- 


They  have 


libitum. 


fit-ted          a  slab        of  the  gran-ite        so  gray,    And  sweet  Alice     lies  un    -    der  the  stone. 


-sc-Z'-^i-  -^r-^j--^  TrTTTr 

-*•-*•-••  -»    •?    •*• 


Don't  you  remember  sweet  Alice,  Ben  Bolt? — 

Sweet  Alice,  whose  hair  was  so  brown, 
Who  wept  with  delight  when  you  gave  her  a  smile, 

And  trembled  with  fear  at  your  frown  ! 
In  the  old  church-yard,  in  the  valley,  Ben  Bolt, 

In  a'corner  obscure  and  alone, 
They  have  fitted  a  slab  of  the  granite  so  gray, 

And  Alice  lies  under  the  stone  ! 

Under  the  hickory  tree,  Ben  Bolt, 

Which  stood  at  the  foot  of  the  hill, 
Together  we've  lain  in  the  noon-day  shade, 

And  listened  to  Appleton's  mill. 
The  mill-wheel  has  fallen  to  pieces,  Ben  Bolt, 

The  rafters  have  tumbled  in, 
And  a  quiet  that  crawls  round  the  walls  as  you  gaze, 

Has  followed  the  olden  din. 

Do  you  mind  the  cabin  of  logs,  Ben  Bolt, 

At  the  edge  of  the  pathless  wood, 
And  the  button-ball  tree  with  its  motley  limbs, 

Which  nigh  by  the  door-step  stood? 


The  cabin  to  ruin  has  gone,  Ben  Bolt, 

The  tree  you  would  seek  in  vain  ; 
And  where  once  the  lords  of  the  forest  waved, 

Grows  grass  and  the  golden  grain. 

And  don't  you  remember  the  school,  Ben  Bolt, 

With  the  master  so  cruel  and  grim, 
And  the  shaded  nook  by  the  running  brook, 

Where  the  children  went  to  swim? 
Grass  grows  on  the  master's  grave,  Ben  Bolt, 

The  spring  of  the  brook  is  dry, 
And  of  all  the  boys  Avho  were  schoolmates  then, 

There  are  only  you  and  I. 

There  is  change  in  the  things  I  loved,  Ben  Bolt, 

They  have  changed  from  the  old  to  the  new ; 
But  I  feel  in  the  depths  of  my  spirit  the  truth, 

There  never  was  change  in  you. 
Twelve-months  twenty  have  past,  Ben  Bolt, 

Since  first  we  were  friends — yet  I  hail 
Thy  presence  a  blessing,  thy  friendship  a  truth, 

Ben  Bolt,  of  the  salt-sea  gale ! 


12 


or/,'    FAMILIAR   A'O.VU.V. 

I    REMEMBER,    I    REMEMBER. 


OTHER  Ivrics  of  THOMAS  HOOD'S  have  been  set  to  music ;  but  none  have  been  familiarly 
ninff  except  the  one  that  follows.  The  story  of  Hood's  life,— of  his  poverty,  his  extreme 
and  constant  bodily  suffering,  his  domestic  love  and  loss,  his  manly  straggles  and"  Ins  boy- 
ish mirth  —is  a  twice-told  tale.  He  tells  us,  in  his  «  Literary  Reminiscences,"  that  he— 


sat  upon  a  lofty  stool, 
At  lofty  desk,  and  with  a  clerkly  pen 
Began  each  morning,  at  the  stroke  of  ten, 
To  write  in  Bell  ft  Co.'s  commercial  school ; 
In  Warnford  Court,  a  shady  nook  and  cool, 
The  favorite  retreat  of  merchant  men ; 
Yet  would  my  quill  turn  vagrant  even  then, 


And  take  stray  dips  in  the  Castalian  pool. 
Now  double  entry— now  a  flowery  trope- 
Mingling  poetic  honey  with  trade  wax— 
Blogg  Brothers— Milton — Grote  and  Prescott— Pope — 
Bristles— and  Hogg— Glyn  Mills  and  Halifax- 
Rogers— and  Towgood— Hemp— the  Bard  of  Hope— 
Barilla— Byron— Tallow— Burns— and  Flax ! 


And  iii  a  characteristic  letter  to  Bulwer,  he  says :  "  I  must  die  in  harness,  like  a  hero  or  a 
horse."  Hood,  who  thought  that  "  next  to  being  a  citizen  of  the  world,  it  must  be  the  best 
thing  to  be  born  a  citizen  of  the  world's  greatest  city,"  was  so  born,  in  real  Cockneydom, 
close  to  Bow  Bells,  London,  May  23d,  1798.  He  died  May  3d,  1845,  and  was  buried  in  Keu- 
sull  Green  Cemetery.  Eliza  Cook  visited  his  grave,  and  found  it  entirely  unmarked.  Nine 
years  were  suffered  to  pass  before  there  was  anything  to  note  a  tomb  except  the  too 
familiar  rounded  heap  of  sod.  Then,  amid  a  vast  multitude  of  sad  and  silent  spectators,. 
Hood's  statue  was  unveiled  there.  The  graceful  vigor  of  Miss  Cook's  lines,  no  less  than 
their  subject,  justifies  their  citation  in  full. 

What  gorgeous  cenotaphs  arise,  of  Parian  shrine  and  granite  vault ; 
What  blazoned  claims  on  purer  skies,  that  shut  out  earthly  flaw  and  fault! 
Who  lies  below  yon  splendid  tomb,  that  stretches  out  so  broad  and  tall? 
The  worms  will  surely  ne'er  exhume  a  sleeper  locked  within  such  wall. 

And  sec  that  other  stately  pile  of  chiselled  glory,  staring  out ! 
Come,  sexton,  leave  your  work  awhile,  and  tell  us  what  we  ask  about. 
So!  one  belongs  to  him  who  held  a  score  of  trained  and  tortured  steeds — 
Great  Circus  Hero,  unexcelled, — on  what  strange  stuff  Ambition  feeds ! 

Tin-  other  guards  the  last  repose  of  one  who  shone  by  juggling  craft. 
Mcthinks  when  such  a  temple  rose,  how  Esculapius  must  have  laughed. 
And  see  that  tomb  beneath  yon  tree! — but,  sexton,  tell  us  where  to  find 
The  grave  of  him  we  came  to  see; — is  it  not  here,  or  are  we  blind? 

We  mean  poor  Hood's— the  man  who  made  that  song  about  the  "  Bridge  of  Sighs.'* 
You  know  the  song;  well,  leave  your  spade,  and  please  to  show  us  where  he  lies. 
What!  there!  without  a  single  mark— without  a  stone— without  a  line- 
Does  watchfirc  Genius  leave  no  spark  to  note  its  ashes  as  divine? 

Must  strangers  come  to  woo  his  shade,  scanning  rare  beauties  as  they  pass; 
And  when  they  pause  where  he  is  laid,  stop  at  a  trodden  mound  of  grass? 
And  i>  it  thus?    Well,  we  suppose,  England  is  far  too  poor  to  spare 
A  slab  of  white,  where  Truth  might  write  the  title  of  her  Poet  Heir. 

l«t  us  adorn  our  city  walks  with  senate-form  and  soldier-chief— 

Carve  toga-folds  and  laurel  stalks,— let  marble  shine  in  robe  and  leaf. 

Miit  Hood—"  poor  Hood"— the  poet  fool,  who  sung  of  women's  woes  and  wrongs, 

Who  tan-lit  his  Master's  golden  rule,— give  him  no  statue  for  his  songs! 

'  -!v.-  him  the  dust  beneath  hi-  head,  give  him  a  grave — a  grave  alone; 
In  life  he  dearly  won  his  bread,  in  death  he  was  not  worth  a  stone. 
Perhaps  we  rightly  think  that  he  who  flung  God's  light  round  lowly  things, 
Can  soar  above  in  memory's  love,  supported  bv  »»U  own  strong  wings. 


/   REMEMBER,  1  REMEMBElt. 

Our  Shakespeare  can  be  only  met  within  a  narrow  play-house  porch ; 

So,  Hood,  thy  spirit  need  not  fret,  but  hold  its  own  immortal  torch. 

Poor  Hood !  for  whom  a  people  wreathes  the  heart-born  flowers  that  never  die ; 

Poor  Hood!  for  whom  a  requiem  breathes  in  every  human,  toil-wrung  sigh. 

Let  the  horse-tamer's  bed  be  known  by  the  rich  mausoleum-shrine ; 


And  let  thy  soul  serenely  sleep,  while  pilgrims  stand,  as  1  1 
To  worship  at  a  nameless  heap,  and  fondly,  sadly  say,  "  PC 

The  music  of  Hood's  song,  "  I  remember,"  was  made 
composer,  author  of  many  beautiful  airs,  who  was  born 
associated  with  his  brothers  as  a  music  publisher  in  Lond 

av( 
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in 
an. 

j  stood, 
Hood  !  " 

7  JOHN  BLOCKLEY,  an  Englist 
1800,  and  was  for  many  year! 
He  died  Dec.  24,  1882. 

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OUR   FAMILJAI!    \O.Y',.s. 


I  remember,  1  remember 

The  house  where  I  was  born, 
The  little  window  where  the  sun 

Came  peeping  in  at  morn  ; 
He  never  came  a  wink  too  soon, 

Nor  brought  too  long  a  day, 
But  now  I  often  wish  the  night 

Had  borne  my  breath  away. 

I  remember,  I  remember 

The  roses  red  and  white, 
The  violets  and  the  lily-cups, 

Those  flowers  made  of  light ; 
The  lilacs  where  the  robin  built, 

And  where  my  brother  set 
The  laburnum,  on  his  birthday, 

And  the  tree  is  living  yet. 


I  remember,  I  remember 

Where  I  was  used  to  swing, 
And  thought  the  air  must  rush  as  fresh 

To  swallows  on  the  wing: 
My  spirit  flew  in  feathers  then. 

That  is  so  heavy  now  ; 
The  summer  pool  could  hardly  cool 

The  fever  on  my  brow. 

I  remember,  I  remember 

The  fir-trees  dark  and  high  ; 
I  used  to  think  their  slender  tops 

Were  close  again  the  sky : 
It  was  a  childish  ignorance. 

But  now  'tis  little  joy 
To  know  I'm  farther  off  from  Heaven, 

Than  when  I  was  a  boy. 


I    REMEMBER. 

WINTHROP  MACKWORTH  PRAED,  a  classmate  of  Macaulay's  at  Cambridge  University. 
and  his  friendly  rival  in  the  boyish  turning  of  a  Greek  ode  or  a  Latin  epigram,  was  bora  in 
London,  of  wealthy  parents,  July  26,  1802.  He  was  pleasing,  brilliant  and  thoughtful. 
Besides  his  rhymed  charades,  which  lifted  that  kind  of  literature  above  the  plane  of  mere 
ingenious  nonsense,  he  wrote  many  exquisite  poems.  He  was  happily  married,  and  both 
he  and  his  verse  were  favorites  in  society.  He  had  been  admitted  to  the  Bar,  served  in 
Parliament,  and  was  entering  upon  a  promising  literary  career,  when  he  died  at  the  age  of 
thirty-seven. 

The  words  of  the  song  "I  remember,"  were  written  in  June,  1833.  The  music  \\;is 
composed  for  them  by  LADY  EDWARD  FITZGERALD. 


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I  REMEMBER.                                                                         15 

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BT5F   2  —  ^  J  f-  BK_     '^_^__^.'   *      

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brow,  love,  on      my        brow,         love,  There    are        no  signs       of       care,              But      my 

—  *        *!       *y                  *         *         *                   ^J«       ?•         J«                     jj         ' 

*    K  Zi  0  —  Zt—  S  •*-  •  0m.  0m.  0m.  »  ^  0  1 
^                       P        -+            -+                                                                                                                                                                                                                                        *            ~ 

"^       .                                    -              ^|        --•-     --       - 

, 

\    \          \                     .  i~. 

-4                                      *•                                              ml                                          * 

K           1                                                                     1 

1      J                                              F                                             1 

*                                              1 

V/^N 

-j^—  1^|  ^  S:  =  —  i  j-1  i  — 

j  -  -,»•••     f     »     3 

rm    K   "J               «       fl*         *            -*1*1 

^      1     1  •           iV         i          i            v                  ^                      1 

picas  -  ures    are      not          now,          love,  What  child  -  hood's  pleas  -  ures    were.          I       re  - 

§          PP          '    • 

r1^-    =f=      =r= 

-T-J             -j           -± 

^~jn  —  f  —      —  '  i*  «  —  —  *  — 

J._Tj  =j  ^  j{  

"^^ 

=g=           r.              p_ 

-T  ^  V  ^-^f-m,     

jr~b^i  —        —  '  *  a  a  — 

-f~  I"  N  F  K  1—               p--—  H—.J 

^T)^  p    *        [p                                     *.        ^        4! 

1          ^                 ml                 6                 ^                        '                                               W                                      1 

mem  -  ber,      I        re  -  mem  -  ber    How   my 

child  -hood  fleet  -  ed        by,                    The 

V^V    V                   m           *l           *1                        «           «           J 

tr                      •      * 
1                             1 

-+          -+          -+                              •+-+-+ 
\ 

"^"l?     "i             i              *             i 

||                                 1                                    J                                        v                               1 

1                               I                         n                            I 

_.j.  4  

•*•                           -*• 

-•• 
/TS 

—  ^  ^  h;—                                            *—!—«—     —  ^--.     -   «            —  J— 

mirth        of        its       De    -  cem  -  ber,       And        the    warmth      of           its          Ju    -    ly. 

)L  \j  i      *•     '                                          ^           ~]                                      *»                                        H 

gfckLl2  —  /  ^  J  3  *  J—  

1                                   T^           "*           "*                          "I*" 

i            1                             1 

5-      •*•            •«*•      -J-      -J-     -f 

RI.J2        9                             ^                             9, 

1  ~  —  ^~l^  1 

1—*  =f  —  1-1 

I  remcrriber,  I  remember 
How  my  childhood  fleeted  by, 
The  mirth  of  its  December, 
And  the  warmth  of  its  July. 
On  my  brow,  love,  on  my  brow,  love, 
There  are  no  signs  of  care, 
But  my  pleasures  are  not  now,  love, 
What  childhood's  pleasures  were. 

•*•                           ^ 

Then  the  bowers,  then  the  bowers 
Were  as  blithe  as  blithe  could  be, 
And  all  their  radiant  flowers 
Were  coronals  for  me  ; 
Gems  to-night,  love,  gems  to-night,  love, 
Are  gleaming  in  my  hair, 
But  they  are  not  half  so  bright,  love, 
As  childhood's  roses  were. 

16 


OUR  FAMILIAR  SONGS. 


I  was  singing,— I  was  singing, 

And  my  songs  were  idle  words ; 
But  from  my  heart  was  springing 

Wild  music  like  a  bird's. 
Now  I  sing,  love— now  I  sing,  love, 

A  fine  Italian  air; 
But  it's  not  so  glad  a  thing,  love, 

As  childhood's  ballads  were. 


I  was  merry,  I  was  merry, 

When  my  little  lovers  came, 
With  a  lily,  or  a  cherry, 

Or  a  new  invented  game  ; 
Now  I've  you,  love,  now  I've  you,  love, 

To  kneel  before  me  there, 
But  you  know  you're  not  so  true,  love, 

As  childhood's  lovers  were. 


OH,   WOULD    I    WERE   A    BOY    AGAIN! 

THE  song  which  follows  is  characteristic  of  its  author,  MARK  LEMON,  founder  and  editor 
of  London  Punch.  Youth's  best  gifts,  hope  and  enthusiasm,  were  never  lost  to  him,  and 
the  man  of  gigantic  proportions  was  at  heart  a  perpetual  boy.  Sympathetic,  generous. 
modest,  and  true-hearted,  he  was  universally  beloved,  though  his  virtues  were  most  appar- 
ent and  best  appreciated  in  his  own  home.  He  formed  a  love-match  while  young  and  poor, 
and  although  he  was  never  substantially  wealthy,  and  died  leaving  very  little  to  his  family, 
he  had  one  of  the  happiest  homes  on  earth.  He  played  a  royal  game  of  romps,  and  could 
beat  his  boys  at  leap-frog.  Mr.  Joseph  L.  Hatton,  in  his  pleasant  volume  of  reminiscences 
of  Mark  Lemon,  says:  "Years  hence,  it  may  seem  almost  beyond  belief  that  the  founder  of 
Punch  died  without  deserving  the  enmity  of  any  man,  beloved  by  all  who  had  labored  with 
him,  respected  by  men  of  all  creeds  and  parties ;  being,  nevertheless,  one  who  had  never 
sacrificed  the  independence  of  his  paper." 

Lemon  had  a  Falstaffian  appearance,  and  an  aptitude  for  representation,  and  he  played 
the  part  of  the  redoubtable  knight  in  the  private  theatricals  which  Dickens  and  kindred 
spirits  enacted,  and  which  became  famous  in  London.  Lemon  formed  a  small  theatrical 
company  of  his  own,  with  which  he  played  throughout  England,  and  made  the  tour  of  Scot- 
land. The  little  amateur  party  named  itself  "  The  Show."  Mr.  Hatton,  who  was  a  mem- 
ber of  the  company,  says:  "The  grave  and  reverend  chief,  sweet  Jack  Falstaff,  rare  Jack 
Falstaff,  kind  Jack  Falstali',  smiled  benignantly  upon  our  frolicsome  notions.  He  gave  him- 
self up  to  all  our  whims  and  fancies.  It  seemed  as  if  he  were  trying  to  be  young  again. 
For  that  matter,  he  was  young;  he  had  a  rich,  unctuous  voice,  and  a  merry,  catching  laugh. 
Not  fame,  but  money  for  his  family,  was  the  object  which  he  sought.  He  made  careful 
study  of  Falstaff,  and  he  always  insisted  that  old  Sir  John  'was  not  a  buffoon,  but  a  gentle- 
man; fallen  away  in  the  general  degeneracy  of  the  times,  but,  nevertheless,  a  gentlemen.'" 

While  writing  as  busily,  but  not  as  readily  as  ever,  Mark  Lemon  says:  "It  seems  out 
of  character  lor  an  old  boy  like  me  to  be  telling  love-stories.  I  don't  know  that  I  have  lost 
faith,  nor  sentiment  either,  but  I  hurry  over  love-scenes  as  if  I  had  no  business  with  them." 
The  description  of  Fal  staffs  death  had  always  moved  the  nobler  man  who  played  his  part. 
Falstali'  in  dying  "babbled  of  green  fields,"  and  Mark  Lemon,  in  his  last  moments,  wan- 
dered back  in  fancy  to  the  loved  and  unforgotten  scenes  of  his  boyhood's  home. 

He  was  bora  in  London,  November  30th,  1809,  and  died  at  Crawley,  Sussex,  May  23d, 
1870.  Besides  his  editorial  work  on  Punch,  and  writings  for  other  periodicals,  he  wrote 
forty  plays,  a  few  novels,  and  hundreds  of  ballads.  His  last,  unfinished,  and  intended  as 
the  second  of  a  series,  was  found  scratched  in  lead  pencil  on  a  sheet  of  blue  foolscap  paper, 
and  had  no  title.  Youth  and  Love  were  the  victors,  ;is  they  had  always  been  with  him. 
It  reads- 


011.    WOULD  I  WERE  A  BOY  AGAIN. 


17 


We  are  two  heroes  come  from  strife ; 

Where  have  we  been  fighting? 
On  the  battlefield  of  life, 

Doing  wrong,  wrong  righting. 

Forth  we  went  a  gallant  band — 
Youth,  Love,  Gold,  and  Pleasure; 

Who,  we  said,  caii  us  withstand? 
Who  dare  lances  measure  ? 


Round  about  the  world  we  went ; 

Ne'er  were  such  free  lances — 
Victors  in  each  tournament, 

Winning  beauty's  glances. 

Gold,  at  last,  his  prowess  lost, 

And  when  he  departed, 
Pleasure's  lance  was  rarely  crossed, 

Pleasure  grew  faint-hearted. 


FRANK  ROMER,  an  Englishman,  born  about  1820,  wrote  the  music  of  this  song  for  Sig- 
nor  Giubilei,  a  noted  Italian  baritone,  who  appeared  in  opera  in  this  country.  Komer  was 
never  paid  a  penny  for  it,  nor  did  he  receive  any  very  large  sum  for  his  numerous  other 
songs.  But  he  was  wise  enough  to  leave  the  business  of  composing  for  that  of  publishing, 
and  is  now  a  partner  in  a  prosperous  music  firm  in  London.  Here  he  has  a  noble  oppor- 
tunity to  give  to  struggling  composers  that  encouragement  in  the  way  of  appreciation  and 
fair  pay  of  which  he  himself  felt  the  need  in  his  younger  days.  "  Oh,  Would  I  were  a  Boy 
again ! "  was  made  still  more  popular  by  a  minstrel  troupe,  who  sang  it  every  night  for 
three  years. 


(OT4    J        *  *~ 

s     P  • 

^fr      -d     -^-^ 

-P-'-1t— 

—  i/  —  •  —     \^~j  — 

-     *—  j     • 

-+-•  ^— 

1.  Oh,  would    I      were        a  boy    a  -  gain,  When  life  seem'd  form'd  of  sun-ny    years,    And  all  the 
2.  'Tis    vain      to    mourn  that  years  have  shown  How  false  these  fai  -  ry  vi-sions  were,      Or  murmur 
A    L,                                                                                                                                                          *  O  would  I 

XI      tl      fj         «•!                 V» 

urr    4               * 

HZ      4- 

—  —  J 

m 

— 

1—  W  1  _  1  

g        ^ 

gj 

-J-al  J— 

tr 
pp 

"1       *1 

r  ~j"  "J 

-* 

-^-f^ 

V 

j^A  •     U  k  > 

'^ 

P_/»   7  f  )       «>|            v» 

J  

—  J 

'     J  1     ^  

^-^^—  ^  —  

-«f  

—  4- 

—  <5 



i 

j 

zif— 

T£ 

3 

-& 

«> 

9 

k'  •  r  %  r  r 

heart  then  knew  of    pain  Was  wept   a  -  way  in    transient  tears,          Was  wept   a  - 

t.hat,  minf>  evps  havfi  known          Tlif>   hiir-thpn      nf  a     flpet.-inor    t.pnr.  Thf>    hiir-then 


knew  of    pain  Was  wept   a  -  way  in    transient  tears,          Was  wept   a  - 

that  mine  eyes  have  known       The  bur-then     of  a    fleet- ing  tear,  The  bur- then 

g      boy     a- gain,     When  lift >  seem'd  form' 'd         nf  sun- ny  yearn.        When  life  seem'd 


.were 


Rallen.  Fine.   A  tempo. 

v 


way  in  transient  tears.  When  ev'ry    tale     hope  whisper'd  then,  My  fan-cy  deemed  wason-ly 

of  a  fleet-ing  tear ;'   But  ^till  the  heart    will  fond-ly  cling      To  hopes  no  long   -  erpriz'das 

i'd    of  sunny j/ears. 


grip-  -J-   qj:  -J-   ^-  '-4^-4   q^r^f 


Ul'U    FAMILIAR 


Crts. 


truth'. 


o|,  would  that    1        could  know  a  -  gain      The  hap  -  py     vi-sions 
And  m.'in-'ry  still        de-lights  to  bring     The  hap  -  py     vi-sions 


of     my  youth. 
of     my  youth. 


THE    OLD    OAKEN    BUCKET. 

THK  public  that  has  so  often  slighted  the  names  of  its  pleasautest  comforters,  has 
occasionally  sought  to  raise  from  obscurity  one  to  whom  its  debts  were  infinitely  less. 
SAMUEL  WOODWORTH  deserved  from  his  fellow  men  nothing  more  than  the  common 
decencies  of  life,  until  he  chanced,  by  mere  persistency  of  scribbling,  to  produce 
something  which,  though  but  tolerable  as  poetry,  touched  the  universal  heart. 
Popular  impression  seems  to  class  him  in  the  list  of  the  unappreciated  great,  who 
might  have  done  more  had  more  been  done  for  them.  Is  it  commonly  remembered  that  a 
volume  of  his  was  published  in  New  York,  with  an  eulogistic  introduction  by  George  P. 
Morris,  which  contained  one  hundred  poems,  save  one, — and  the  lacking  one  is  the  only 
real  one  that  Woodworth  ever  wrote — "  The  Old  Oaken  Bucket,"  which  was  not  then  in 
existence. 

He  was  born  in  Scituate,  Plymouth  County,  Massachusetts,  January  13th,  1785.  His 
father  w;us  a  fanner,  and  very  poor.  At  fourteen,  Samuel  had  picked  up  but  little  reading, 
writing  and  arithmetic,  when  he  began  to  make  rhymes  which  the  village  authorities, — the 
minister,  and  the  school-master—saw  and  pronounced  remarkable.  The  minister  took 
him  into  his  own  family,  and  instructed  him  in  English  branches  and  Latin ;  but  verse- 
making  kept  him  from  study,  and  the  love  of  it.  The  minister  tried  to  raise  money  enough 
to  carry  him  through  college ;  but  the  undertaking  failed,  and  the  spirit  which  inspired 
many  youths  of  his  day  to  get  an  education  through  their  own  efforts,  was  not  possessed 
by  our  hero.  He  chose  the  calling  of  a  printer,  but  at  the  end  of  his  apprenticeship  in  a 
Boston  omce,  he  had  wearied  of  the  arduous  work.  He  formed  a  preposterous  plan  for 
making  a  tour  over  the  whole  country,  in  order  to  write  a  description  of  his  travels.  But 
again  prnph-  were  reluctant  to  invest  for  his  benefit}  and  as  the  economical  and  health- 
ring  method  of  walking  did  not  tempt  his  fancy,  his  biographer  touchingly  records,  that 
when  that  hope  had  failed  him  also,  he  returned  to  the  printer's  case.  Soon  after,  he 
rn-aged  in  a  wild  six-dilation,  and  the  same  friendly  hand  euphemistically  writes  that  "the 
unfortunate  result  rendered  a  temporary  absence  from  his  native  State  necessary  to  the 

•vat  ion  of  his  personal  liberty."    He  then  planned  a  journey  to  the  South,  and  a 
fnend  who  had  often  given  him  the  same  kind  of  assistance,  supplied  a  purse  that  would 

lim  a  little  way.    He  vainly  asked  for  work  at  the  printing-offices  along  his  route, 

I  arrived  in  New  Haven  with  blistered  feet  and  an  empty  pocket.    With  additional 

•oni  his  generous  friend,  he  continued  his  journey  to  New  York,  where  he  found 

1  further  loan  awaiting  him.    But  verse-making  and  love-making  claimed 

most  ot  his  time,  and  in  nine  months  he  abandoned  the  employment  that  had  once  given 


THE  OLD   OAKEN  BUCKET.  19 

him  the  means  of  support  and  left  him  leisure  for  literary  pursuits.  He  then  established 
a  newspaper,  procuring  an  outfit  upon  credit.  It  was  called  The  Belles-Lettres  Reposi- 
tory, and  was  enthusiastically  dedicated  to  the  ladies.  Perhaps  the  fair  were  highly  flat- 
tered, but  the  brothers,  lovers,  and  husbands  failed  to  buy.  A  crash,  of  course,  ensued^ 
after  which  the  creditors  had  the  pleasure  of  reading  a  poem  of  six  hundred  lines,  which 
the  publisher  and  editor  wrote  to  relieve  his  feelings. 

He  worked  in  Hartford  a  few  weeks,  and  then  went  back  to  his  early  home.  Once 
more  he  set  out,  on  foot,  in  search  of  fame  and  fortune.  He  wandered  to  Baltimore,  pay- 
ing his  way  by  writing  for  the  newspapers,  and  he  never  lacked  a  market  for  his  rhymes. 
But,  poor  as  ever,  he  returned  to  New  York,  and  involved  other  lives  in  the  needless  bitter- 
ness of  his  own.  He  married,  and  four  little  ones  were  born  to,  and  amid  the  miseries  ofr 
his  poverty. 

During  the  war  of  1812-'15,  Mr.  Woodworth  conducted  a  weekly  newspaper  called 
The  War,  and  a  monthly  magazine  called  The  Halcyon  Luminary  and  Theological  deposi- 
tory. The  latter  was  devoted  to  the  doctrine  of  Swedenborg,  of  whom  Woodworth  was  a 
follower.  More  debt  was  all  that  resulted  to  him.  through  his  enterprise.  He  had  no  diffi- 
culty in  obtaining  employment  in  a  printing-office,  and,  while  working  there,  he  was  asked 
to  write  a  history  of  the  war  with  England,  in  the  style  of  a  romance,  to  be  entitled  "The 
Champions  of  Freedom."  So  eager  was  the  public  for  this  story,  which  nobody  now  reads, 
that  the  author  was  often  compelled  to  send  twelve  uurevised  lines  at  a  time  to  the 
press.  The  printing  was  begun  when  but  two  sheets  were  written. 

Two  publishing-houses  simultaneously  offered  to  collect,  illustrate,  and  publish  Wood- 
worth's  poems,  and  accompany  them  with  a  sketch  of  his  life.  They  hunted  stray  corners 
for  his  rhymed  scraps,  and  solemnly  asserted  that  "  they  wished  no  advantage  to  them- 
selves, but  were  moved  only  by  the  desire  to  rescue  from  oblivion  the  fugitive  productions 
of  a  native  poet,  who  upon  the  other  side  of  the  water  would  have  attained  opulence,  and 
to  relieve  an  unfortunate  author  from  pecuniary  embarrassment;"  adding  that,  if  that 
effort  met  with  success,  a  second  volume  would  be  forthcoming !  Samuel  Woodworth  died 
December  9th,  1842. 

uThe  Old  Oaken  Bucket"  was  written  in  the  summer  of  1817,  when  Mr.  Woodworth, 
with  his  family,  was  living  in  Duane  street,  New  York  City.  One  hot  day,  he  came  into  the 
house,  and  pouring  out  a  glass  of  water,  drained  it  eagerly.  As  he  set  it  down,  he  ex- 
claimed, "  That  is  very  refreshing,  but  how  much  more  refreshing  would  it  be  to  take  a 
good,  long  draught  from  the  old  oaken'bucket  I  left  hanging  in  my  father's  well,  at  home." 

"  Selim,"  said  his  wife,  "  wouldn't  that  be  a  pretty  subject  for  a  poem  ?" 

At  this  suggestion,  Woodworth  seized  his  pen,  and  as  the  home  of  his  childhood  rose 
vividly  to  his  fancy,  he  wrote  the  now  familiar  words.  The  name  of  Frederick  Smith 
appears  as  composer  of  the  air,  but  he  was  merely  the  arranger,  as  the  melody  is  adapted 
from  Kiallmark's  music  written  for  Moore's  "Araby's  Daughter/' 


•ff  o  r     ~p       ~jV   J*~T  _  I*  g         r   T  _  -S-  ___  v     ~r  T     H-       ~p       ~r  T  _  ~T         m  __  -*»  _ 

=f=i^}E«E^?E3=.  zzfirzzifct:  ~^—p=4-  :=£=3=3=  •=^=?~ 

—0  ---  *-T—  *  -  *—  —$  -  ^—  -  #  -  *  ----  *  -  *  -  *—'   —  *-T—  i  -  +— 


How  dear  to  this  heart  are  the  scenes  of  my  child-  hood,  When  fond  re  -col  - 
The  or  -chard,  the  mead  -  ow,  the  deep  -  tan-gled  wild  -wood,  And  ev  -  'ry  loved 
The  old  oak  -  en  buck  -  et,  the  i  -  ron-bouud  buck  -  et,  the  moss-cov-  ered 


OUR    FAMILIAR    fiONGH. 


FINE. 


-   liv  -  tion       pre  -  souls    thfin      to  view. 

spot   which     my         in    -    fan    -  cy  knew. 

buck   -  <-t       that     hung      in       the  well. 

=f=fe»=f= 


7  —  rrtz^I 

1  — 

^            N     I        N            ~N            ^ 

~"i"  *           1 

'                    '                    "m                    I 

"4      *~ 

*    4r  *r  *    * 

The      wide  -  spread  -  ing        pond,               the 

The       cot 

of        my        fath   -    er,      tlie 

r 

• 

f 

£ 

—  i  

I— 

5 

" 

* 

D.  C. 


—  T  z^zii^- 

=£=*=  ^rj3=4=^E:  = 
-1-—  —    -J  --- 


mill    that  stood      by       it,     The   bridge  and     the      rock  where  the        cat    -    a    -    ract    fell, 
dai  -   ry   house    nigh      it,     And     e'en    the    rude     buck  -  et    that     hung      in         the    well. 


How  dear  to  my  heart  are  the  scenes  of  my  child- 
hood 

When  fond  recollection  presents  them  to  view ; 
The  orchard,  the  meadow,  the  deep-tangled  wild- 
wood, 

And  every  loved  spot  which  my  infancy  knew  \ 
The  wide-spreading  pond,  the  mill  that  stood  by 

it, 

The  bridge  and  the  rock  where  the  cataract  fell, 
The  cot  of  my  father,  the  dairy  house  nigh  it, 
And  e'en  the  rude  bucket  that  hung  in  the  well. 

Cko. — The    old    oaken    bucket,   the   iron-bound 

bucket, 

The  moss-covered  bucket  that  hung  in  the 
well. 

The  moss-covered  bucket  1  hailed  as  a  treasure, 
For  often  at  noon  when  returned  from  the  field. 


I  found  it  the  source  of  an  exquisite  pleasure, 

The  purest  and  sweetest  that  nature  can  yield. 
How  ardent   I    seized  it,  with  hands  that  were 

glowing, 

And  quick  to  the  white,  pebbled  bottom  it  fell. 
Then  soon  with  the  emblem  of  truth  overflowing. 
And  dropping  with  coolness  it  rose  from  the 
well. 

How  sweet  from  the  green,  mossy  rim  to  receive 
it, 

As,  poised  on  the  curb,  it  inclined  to  my  lips: 
Not  a  full,  blushing  goblet  could   tempt  me   to 
leave  it, 

Tho'  filled  with  the  nectar  that  Jupiter  sips. 
And  now,  far  removed  from  the  loved  situation. 

The  tear  of  regret  will  intrusively  swell, 
As  fancy  reverts  to  my  father's  plantation, 

And  sighs  for  the  bucket  which  hung  in  the  well. 


THE    OLD    ARM-CHAIR. 

IT  was  in  ELIZA  COOK'S  girlhood  that  "The  Old  Arm-Chair"  was  made  vacant  bv  h«-r 
ifs  d.-ath ;  and  the  daughter's  life  was  not  very  happy  until,  with  the  profits  of  her 
writ mus,  shr  had  bought  a  house  and  made  herself  a  charming  home     We  think  of  her 
almost  as  the  occupant  of  the  old  arm-chair  herself;  but  it  is  not  so  many  years  since  our 
untry-woman,  Frances  S.  Osgood,  wrote  from  London:  "Eliza  Cook  is  just  what  her 
would  lead  you  to  imagine  her-a  frank,  brave,  and  warm-hearted  girl,  about 

7  y7irSH°lrT-       n  '  f^  rd  ?lrdy  10°king'  ^  a  face  not  hand^  "it  verv 
intelligent.    Her  hair  is  black,  and  very  luxuriant,  her  eyes  gray  and  full  of  exnressi,       nil 

her  mouth  indescribably  sweet."  As  she  is  a  little  out  of  Lhion  now-a ^TyT  we  are 
always  surprised  to  find  how  pleasant  her  writings  are,  and,  especially  how  sp trited  a^ 
iome  of  her  lyrics.  She  was  bom  in  London  in  1*17. 


THE    OLD   ARM-CHAIR. 


21 


HENRY  RUSSELL,  the  famous  composer,  who  made  the  air  to  which  "  The  Old  Arm- 
Chair"  is  set,  was  born  in  England  about  1812.  He  is  said  to  have  been  of  Jewish  descent, 
but  those  who  were  intimate  with  him  say  that  his  features  did  not  indicate  it.  He  began 
his  professional  life  as  a  music-teacher,  and  while  he  was  pursuing  that  vocation  in  Bir- 
mingham, his  talents  so  fascinated  Miss  Isabella  Lloyd,  daughter  of  a  rich  Quaker  banker, 
who  possessed  twenty-five  thousand  dollars  a  year  in  her  own  right,  that  she  ran  away 
from  home  and  married  him.  Russell  wrote  music  for  some  of  Charles  Mackey's  spirited 
lyrics,  and  got  up  a  series  of  concerts  which  were  very  popular  throughout  the  British 
Islands.  Authorities  differ  respecting  his  voice ;  contemporary  journals  speak  of  its  mag- 
nificent quality  and  compass,  while  a  trustworthy  account  says  that  he  sang  effectively, 
without  anything  like  a  voice.  He'  certainly  had  power  to  move  audiences,  and  much  of 
his  success  came  from  his  selection  of  simple  and  picturesque  words,  which  he  rendered 
with  feeling  and  a  perfectly  distinct  utterance.  He  sang  the  pathetic  and  the  rollicking 
with  equal  success. 

Russell  visited  the  United  States  about  1843,  and  is  still  well  remembered  here.  He 
carried  home  golden  spoils ;  and  after  a  few  successful  tours  in  the  old  world,  gave  up  the 
stage  entirely  and  devoted  himself  to  a  business  more  profitable  even  than  that  of  a  favor- 
ite singer.  He  became  a  bill-discounter,  what  we  should  call  a  "  note-shaver,"  in  London, 
and  amassed  an  immense  fortune. 


I  love  it,         I  love  it,        and  who  shall  dare      To  chide  me  for  loving  that  Old  Arm  Chair?  I've 


treasured       it  long       as    a    ho  -  ly     prize,  I'vebe-dew'd  it  with  tears,  and  embalm'cl  it  with  sighs  ;'Tis 


bound  by  athou  -  sand  bands  to  my  heart,  Not  a   tie        will  break,  not  a  link    will  start.  Would  ye 

^Ts 


OUK   FAMILIAR   SONGS. 


E 


Irani 


the  spell, 


a  moth-er        sat  there,    And    a       sa   -   cred  thing     is    that 


^ - 


Old         Ann        Chair. 


ft)                                 -T| 
Jte 


m 


IT ftCl 

I  sat       and  watch'd  her  ma  -  ny    a  day, When  her  eye  grew  dim,  and  her  locks    weregray,And  I 


^-  i   ^  -*    -^-    — h    -^- y   ibH- 

!>    f^  ^  •*  -r      ^IB*- 


^r—r^? 


E-    *  = 

:       E=^-" 


worshipp'dher    when    she    smiled,    And  turn'd  from  her  bi- ble      to  bless   her  child. 


Tetraroll'd    on,  but  the    lut  one  sped,          My     I  -  do]  was  shatterM,  my  earth  star    fled :      I 


THE    OLD  ARM-CHAIR. 


23 


learnt        how        much  the  heart       can      bear,  When  1      saw     her      die       in  that 


Old          Arm         Chair. 


-V 


4_ 


f 


'Tis  j)ast !    'ti.s  past !  but  1  gajse  on    it  now        With  quiver-ing  breath,  and  throb  -  bing  brow,  'Twas 


^F- 
&±* 


33 

3*^ 


,_4~ 


-H-*-— -'— J— 4-0 


:0=i-35p   -5* 
-htstrzf 


rj 


i  i 

_| 


^____P      . ~i~ — I  i         r  r   *         v     "         ~~i  r~"     '       x  !  _  r  j— — ^  — I         —    — 

E!=iE^gl_=EgE        E^E^lEEgE      =fe  EEEtlE 

^   /     _L — i i CIj 14 ^-^ J ' — I 1 ' 

•&-  -0-  -»••»-  •*••*-  •*•  — r 


there      she  nurs'd  me,        'twas  there  she       died;    And  mem -'ry      flows          with  la  -  va     tide. 

~—— ^  •         :  P'" 


±±^3 


4 


•«•• 


-_| 4 

:&f 

z>— 


SEE 


:=t 

S?-: 


Eg|^^g^^g=^j= 


Say       it    is    fol-ly,  and  deem  me  weak,  While  the  scald-ing  drops  start  down  my  cheek;  But  I 


1 


(2 


^m 


love    it,  I    love    it,  and  can    -    not       tear  My     soul  from    a  mo  -  ther's 

_  T_^_  I f 0_^r U 


I  love  it,  I  love  it ;  and  who  shall  dare 

To  chide  me  for  loving  that  old  arm-chair? 

I've  treasured  it  long  as  a  sainted  prize  ; 

I've  bedewed  it  with  tears,  and  embalmed  it  with 

sighs ; 

'Tis  bound  by  a  thousand  bands  to  my  heart, 
Not  a  tie  will  break,  not  a  link  will  start. 
Would  you  learn  the  spell  ?  —  a  mother  sat  there, 
And  a  sacred  thing  is  that  old  arm-chair. 

In  childhood's  hour  I  lingered  near 

The  hallowed  seat  with  listening  ear; 

And  gentle  words  that  mother  would  give. 

To  fit  me  to  die,  and  teach  me  to  live. 

She  told  me  shame  would  never  betide, 

With  truth  for  my  creed  and  God  for  my  guide  : 

She  taught  me  to  lisp  my  earliest  prayer, 

As  I  knelt  beside  that  old  arm-chair. 


I  sat  and  watched  her  many  a  day. 

When   her  eye  grew  dim,  and  her   locks   were 

gray; 

And  I  almost  worshipped  her  when  she  smiled, 
And  turned  from  her  Bible  to  bless  her  child. 
Years  rolled  on;  but  the  last  one  sped  — 
My  idol  was  shattered,  my  earth-star  fled : 
I  learnt  how  much  the  heart  can  bear, 
When  I  saw  her  die  in  that  old  arm-chair. 

'Tis  past,  'tis  past,  but  I  gaze  on  it  now 

With  quivering  breath  and  throbbing  brow; 

"Twas  there  she  nursed  me,  'twas  there  she  died; 

And  memory  flows  with  lava  tide. 

Say  it  is  folly,  and  deem  me  weak, 

While  the  scalding  drops  run  down  my  cheek; 

But  I  love  it,  I  love  it,  and  cannot  tear 

My  soul  from  a  mother's  old  arm-chair. 


WOODMAN,    XPAltE    THAT    THEE.  25 

WOODMAN,  SPARE  THAT  TREE. 

GEORGE  P.  MORRIS'S  songs  have  in  them  the  something  which  lives  in  the  memory 
and  the  heart.  They  seem  like  happy  accidents  of  a  mind  that  could  arrange  and  make 
available  the  talent  of  other  men,  rather  than  originate.  General  Morris  was  best  known 
as  a  successful  editor  of  journals  of  polite  literature,  when  our  country  most  needed  such 
journalism.  He  is  inseparably  associated  with  N.  P.  Willis,  with  whom  he  conducted  the 
Mirror,  the  New  Mirror,  and  the  Home  Journal.  Samuel  Woodworth,  whose  "  Old  Oaken 
Bucket "  is  founded  on  the  same  sentiments  that  make  Mr.  Morris's  songs  popular,  started 
the  Mirror  with  him,  when  Morris  was  but  twenty-one  years  old ;  but  Woodworth  very 
soon  left  the  firm.  General  Morris  was  born  in  Philadelphia,  October  10,  1802,  but  his  life 
is  entirely  associated  with  New  York  City,  where  he  died  July  6,  1864. 

The  following  is  his  own  account  of  the  way  in  which  "Woodman,  Spare  that  Tree" 
came  to  be  written :  "  Eiding  out  of  town  a  few  days  since,  in  company  with  a  friend,  who 
was  once  the  expectant  heir  of  the  largest  estate  in  America,  but  over  whose  worldly 
prospects  a  blight  has  recently  come,  he  invited  me  to  turn  down  a  little  romantic  wood- 
land pass,  not  far  from  Bloomingdale.  'Your  object?'  inquired  I.  'Merely  to  look  once 
more  at  an  old  tree  planted  by  my  grandfather,  near  a  cottage  that  was  once  my  father's.' 
'  The  place  is  yours,  then  ?'  said  I.  '  No,  my  poor  mother  sold  it,' —  and  I  observed  a  slight 
quiver  of  the  lip,  at  the  recollection.  'Dear  mother !'  resumed  my  companion,  'we  passed 
many,  many  happy  days  in  that  old  cottage;  but  it  is  nothing  to  me  now.  Father,  mother, 
sisters,  cottage — all  are  gone !'  After  a  moment's  pause  he  added.  'Don't  think  me  foolish. 
I  don't  know  how  it  is,  I  never  ride  out  but  I  turn  down  this  lane  to  look  at  that  old  tree. 
I  have  a  thousand  recollections  about  it,  and  I  always  greet  it  as  a  familiar  and  well- 
remembered  friend.  In  the  by-gone  summer-time  it  was  a  friend  indeed.  Its  leaves  are 
all  off  now,  so  you  won't  see  it  to  advantage,  for  it  is  a  glorious  old  fellow  in  summer,  but 
I  like  it  full  as  well  in  winter-time.'  These  words  were  scarcely  uttered,  when  my  com- 
panion cried  out,  '  There  it  is !'  Near  the  tree  stood  an  old  man,  with  his  coat  off,  sharp- 
ening an  axe.  He  was  the  occupant  of  the  cottage.  'What  do  you  intend  doing?'  asked 
my  friend,  in  great  anxiety.  'What  is  that  to  you?'  was  the  blunt  reply.  'You  are  not 
going  to  cut  that  tree  down,  surely  ?'  'Yes,  I  am,  though/  said  the  woodman.  '  What 
for?'  inquired  my  companion,  almost  choked  with  emotion.  'What  for?  Why,  because  I 
think  proper  to  do  so.  What  for  ?  I  like  that !  Well,  I'll  tell  you  what  for.  This  tree 
makes  my  dwelling  unhealthy ;  it  stands  too  near  the  house.  It  renders  us  liable  to  fever- 

and-ague.  '  Who  told  you  that ?'  'Dr.  S .'  ' Have  you  any  other  reason  for  wishing 

it  cut  down  ?'  '  Yes, — I  am  getting  old ;  the  woods  are  a  great  way  off,  and  this  tree  is  of 
some  value  to  me  to  burn.'  He  was  soon  convinced,  however,  that  the  story  about  the 
fever-and-ague  was  a  mere  fiction,  for  there  had  never  been  a  case  of  that  disease  in  the 
neighborhood ;  and  was  then  asked  what  the  tree  was  worth  for  firewood.  '  Why,  when 
it's  down,  about  ten  dollars.'  '  Suppose  I  make  you  a  present  of  that  amount,  will  you  let 
it  stand?'  'Yes.'  'You  are  sure  of  that?'  'Positive.'  'Then  give  me  a  bond  to  that 
effect.'  I  drew  it  up,  it  was  witnessed  by  his  daughter,  the  money  was  paid,  and  we  left 
the  place  with  an  assurance  from  the  young  girl,  who  looked  as  srniling  and  beautiful  as  a 
Hebe,  that  the  tree  should  stand  as  long  as  she  lived." 

HENRY  RUSSELL  composed  the  appropriate  melody,  and  the  tree  which  the  woodman 
had  spared  was  crowned  with  undying  greenery.  He  says :  "  After  I  had  sung  the  noble 
ballad  of  'Woodman,  spare  that  tree,'  at  Boulogne,  an  old  gentleman  among  the  audience, 
who  was  greatly  moved  by  the  simple  and  touching  beauty  of  the  words,  rose  and  said, 
'  I  beg  your  pardon,  Mr.  Eussell,  but  was  the  tree  really  spared  ?'  '  It  was,'  said  I.  '  I  am 
very  glad  to  hear  it,'  said  he,  as  he  took  his  seat  amidst  the  applause  of  the  whole  assem- 
bly. I  never  saw  such  excitement  in  any  concert-room." 


v.j 


or/,'    FAMlLJAfi    SOXGX 


m 


1.  Wood     -     man,    spare         that       tree!. 


Touch     not   a      sin    -    gle 


bough; 


In  vouth  it    shel      -      tered     me,. 


And 


hand, 


That  placed  it    near  his       cot, 


There, 


Thy      &xe  shall  harm it      not! 


WOODMAN,    SPARE    THAT    TREE. 


27 


2D  VERSE. 


2.  That       old     fa  -  mil    -     -    lar      tree, 


-     ry     and       re  - 


Are        spread  o'er  land  and      sea, 


i=E*S 


wouldst        thou  hew  it       down? 


Wood   -  man,    for-bear         thy 


cx 

H*     • 

J 

| 

a 

•K 

1 

stroke ! . 


Cut     not  its  earth  -  bound         ties; 


Oh, 


o— r 


iq^  i   PI^IJ^I    i^*i^|ip^i^p    -1^-1^-1^1^: 


spare  that     a    -     -    ged   oak,. 


Now     tow'r      -     ing    to  the        skies. 


OUR  FAMILIAR  6'O.NV;\. 


8.  When      but      an      I    -    die      boy. 


I     sought      its       grate   -    ful          shade;        In 


all         their  gush    -    ing      joy 
K        FT"* 


y=^ 


Here,        too,         my      sis     -     ters   played;       My 


f  i  f  laJ.^TT^p 


-   ther    kissed       me  here; 


My       f:i    -    ther  pressed    my     hand.         For  - 


* 


-   give      this     fool     -     ish      tear,. 


But        let       that  old       oak  stand. 


4TH  VERSE. 


HHi 


4.  My      heart-strings  round  thee       cling,. 

rJ~7  J  i    rtE^ 


Close       as      thy      bark,       old         friend! 
=?=3=j 


Here     shall    the     wild  -  bird       sing, And          still       thy  branch  -  es        bend. 


Old      tree      the  storm  shall    brave, And     wood  -  man.  leave    the      spot;         While 


'•••£££ 


I've         a       hand        to     save, 

Woodman,  spare  that  tree ! 

Touch  not  a  single  bough  ; 
In  youth  it  sheltered  me, 

And  I'll  protect  it  now  ; 
'Twas  my  forefathers'  hand, 

That  placed  it  near  his  cot, 
There,  woodman,  let  it  stand, 

Thy  axe  shall  harm  it  not! 

That  old  familiar  tree, 

Whose  glory  and  renown, 
Are  spread  o'er  land  and  sea, 

And  would'st  thou  hew  it  down  ? 
Woodman,  forbear  thy  stroke! 

Cut  not  its  earth-bound  ties ; 
Oh  !  spare  that  aged  oak, 

Now  towering  to  the  skies. 


Thy       axe    shall  harm it       not. 


When  but  an  idle  boy, 

I  sought  its  grateful  shade  ; 
In  all  their  gushing  joy, 

Here,  too,  my  sisters  played ; 
My  mother  kissed  me  here ; 

My  father  piessed  my  hand, 
Forgive  this  foolish  tear, 

But  let  that  old  oak  stand! 

My  heart-strings  round  thee  cling» 

Close  as  thy  bark,  old  friend ! 
Here  shall  the  wild-bird  sing, 

And  still  thy  branches  bend. 
Old  tree  the  storm  shall  brave, 

And,  woodman,  leave  the  spot ; 
While  I've  a  hand  to  save, 

Thy  axe  shall  harm  it  not. 


WE  HAVE  LIVED  AND  LOVED   TOGETHER.  99 

WE   HAVE   LIVED   AND   LOVED  TOGETHER. 

THE  words  of  this  song  are  commonly  attributed  to  Mrs.  Norton,  probably  because  it 
was  published  about  the  time  of  her  separation  from  her  husband.  But  they  were  written 
by  CHARLES  JEFFERYS,  who  found  the  melody  on  a  scrap  of  paper  that  came  home  around 
some  groceries,  and  wrote  the  words  to  suit  it.  Neither  he  nor  any  of  his  musical  friends 
could  tell  where  this  melody  was  from;  but  years  afterward,  when  Nicolo's  "Joconde"  was 
revived  in  London,  the  long-sought  origin  of  the  air  was  found  in  that  opera. 

NICOLO  (NICOLAS  ISOUARD)  was  born  in  Malta  in  1777.  He  completed  his  studies  in 
Naples,  and  when  the  French  evacuated  Italy,  went  with  them,  as  private  secretary  to  Gen- 
eral Vaubois.  The  remainder  of  his  life  was  devoted  to  musical  art  in  Paris,  where  he  died 
in  1818. 


A  ndantino. 
Is 


1.  "We  have  lived   and  loved 

2.  Like  the  leaves  that  fall 

3.  We  have  lived    and  loved 


to  -  geth    -    - 

a  -round 

to  -  geth    -     - 


Thro'  ma   -   ny  chang  -  ing  years, 
In     Au-tumn's  fad  -  ing  hours; 
Thro'  ma   -   ny  chaug  -  ing  years, 


i — r^ 


B 


14.- 


shar'd  each  oth   -  er's     glad 
trai  -  tor  smiles    that    dark 
shar'd  each  oth    -  er's     glad 


ness,     And     wept    each  oth   -  er's    tears... 

en  When  the  cloud    of    sor  -    row     lowers,. 

ness,     And     wept    each  oth    -  er's    tears... 


I    have     nev   -   er    known    a       sor-row  That  was 

And  tho'      ma   -   ny    such  we've  known,  love,  Too 

And  let      us     hope,    the      fu-ture,  As  the 


30 


nrn    FAMILIAR    A' 


Ral  -   len    -   Ian    -    do. 


|QU  _^^-^  —  f 

T—  fn 

—  **—*  •— 

^  —  ^  J\r^ 

H-ff..         rf-^Tm     ^~ 

long    un-sooth'd  by 
prone    a   -   las!    to 
past    has    been,  will 

fc-f"p  fTT-i 

tli.-i-  Thaf  was 

-4  '-Cj  C  ^=  =t^ua=^ 

long       un-sooth'd    by     thee,....      For     thy 
>rone        a    -    las!      to      range,..      We 
past       has    been,  will      be;....         I       will 

r&  m  i  «I--"'"J    ^  i 

t,,.    AX    the 

tT       *                * 
Sp              i     J 

H»  
•1 

-J  •-  (     E  * 

—  ^  «  ^  —      —  sj— 

^    •           ^  .* 
! 

*  * 

E$  *  d  J3 

r      r 

EEE^HE: 

^ 

smile  can  make  a  sum 

both  can  speak  of  one, 

share  with  thee  thy  sor 


mer  Where  dark  -  ness  else  would  be. . . 
love,  Whom  time  could  nev  -  er  clian.t. 
rows,  And  thou  thy  joys  with  me.. 


For  thy 
\\Y 
I   will 


smile  ean    innkc       a      sum    . 
both  can   npeak      of      one, 
share  with   tliee      thy      wr    . 


.    mer  Where      dark  -ness     else  would 
love,     Whom      time  could   uev  -  er 
.    rows,   And       thou    thy     joys    with 


be. 
change. 


WE  HAVE  BEEN  FRIENDS  TOGETHER. 

CAROLINE  ELIZABETH  SARAH  SHERIDAN  was  one  of  three  daughters  of  Thomas  Sheri. 
dan,  son  of  Richard  Brinsley  Sheridan.  She  was  born  in  1808,  and  although  her  father  died 
when  she  was  very  young,  her  mother  was  enabled  to  give  her  daughters  a  superior  educa- 
tion, which  she  superintended  with  the  greatest  care.  Caroline  and  her  older  sister,  after- 
ward Lady  Dufferin,  used  to  amuse  themsHvrs  by  writing  prow  and  verse  for  each  other's 
inspection,  when  they  were  very  young.  Before  they  were  rwol  ve  years  old,  they  had  com- 


WE  HAVE  BEEN  FRIENDS  TOGETHER. 


31 


posed  and  illustrated  two  little  volumes  of  poetry.  At  the  age  of  nineteen,  Caroline  mar- 
ried Hon.  George  Chappie  Norton ;  but  her  life  proved  so  unhappy  that  she  separated 
from  him.  She  devoted  herself  to  writing,  and  much  of  her  inspiration  was  drawn  from 
her  sympathy  with  suffering  in  many  forms.  Public  abuses  and  private  wrongs  moved  her 
kind  heart  and  her  ready  pen.  Her  subjects  are  generally  sad,  but  her  nature  was  bright 
and  genial.  Dr.  Moir,  in  one  of  his  lectures  on  the  "  Poetical  literature  of  the  past  half- 
century,"  said  of  Mrs.  Norton:  "  Her  ear  for  the  modulation  of  verse  is  exquisite;  and  many 
of  her  lyrics  and  songs  carry  in  them  the  characteristics  of  the  ancient  Douglases,  being 
alike  <  tender  and  true.'"  Mrs.  Norton  married  Sir  William  Sterling  Maxwell,  March  1, 
1877,  and  on  June  15th,  of  the  same'year,  she  died. 

The  music  of  "  We  have  been  friends  together  "  is  the  composition  of  HENRY  RUSSELL. 


Andante. 


1.  We     have 

2.  We     have 

3.  We     have 


been  friends  to  -  geth  -  er, 
been  gay  to  -  geth-er; 
been  sad  to  -  geth-er; 


In  sun  -shine  and      in 

We      laughed  at        lit  -   tie 

We  have  wept  with    bit  -  ter 


shade, 
jests  ; 
tears, 


f± 


Since       first,        be-neath  the        chest -nut  tree,       In  in    -    f  an  -  cy         we  played. 

For  the    fount       of  hope   was        gush    -    ing       Warm  and    joy   -   ous     in         our  breasts ; 
O'er  the   grass-grown  graves  where    slum  -  bered          The         hopes      of     ear'   -    ly     years. 


rmrn 


-*— 


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-T                                      "     •          w            ^          J.         J.         A         J.                                                  ~            9                            -\  * 

But     cold  -  ness  dwells  with  -  in      thy    heart,          A     cloud       is       on        thy       brow  ; 
But   laugh  -  ter    now   hath     fled     thy      lip,          And     sul    -    len  glooms    thy       brow; 
The     voi   -    ces    which  are       si  -  lent   there       Would  bid       thee   clear      thy       brow; 

^         •         •   .        m         •          -                                               _.            ~   .      ^«         «            •         •   . 

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We  have  been  friends  to 
We  have  been  gay  to 
We  have  been  sad  to 


geth  -  er,— 
geth  -  er,  — 
geth  -  er,  — 


Shall    &      light     word     part        us 

Shall     a      light     word     part        us 

O         what     shall     part        us 


m 


now? 
now? 
now? 


32 


OUR    FAMILIAR    SONQX. 

OFT  IN  THE   STILLY  NIGHT. 


THOMAS  MOORE'S  well-known  life  began  in  a  corner-grocery,  on  Angler  street,  Dublin, 
May  28,  1779.  His  father  carried  on  his  traffic  below  stairs,  while  his  mother,  a  woman  of 
more  than  ordinary  intellect  and  lovableness,  tended  her  handsome  baby  up-stairs.  To  the 
close  of  her  days  she  received  the  undiminished  devotion  of  her  gifted  son,  and  when  both 
had  died,  four  thousand  letters  from  him  were  found  among  his  mother's  papers.  Moore's 
marriage  to  Miss  Bessie  Dyke,  a  young  actress,  was  a  happy  one.  Loved  as  he  was,  and 
courts!  by  the  great  as  he  became,  he  used  to  say  that  no  applause  ever  greeted  his  car 
so  pleasantly  as  that  which  was  evoked  by  a  young  fellow,  who  planted  himself  on  the 
quay,  in  Dublin,  and  called  out  in  fine  brogue,  Byron's  dictum,  "  Three  cheers  for  Tommy 
Moore,  the  pote  of  all  circles,  and  the  darlint  of  his  own."  "The  darlint"  of  all  circles  he 
was  also,  and  funny  stories  are  told  of  his  never-ceasing  blunders  regarding  his  invitations. 
He  was  always  popping  in  at  my  Lord's  or  my  Lady's,  on  the  days  when  he  was  not 
expected. 

Moore's  eldest  son  proved  a  renegade ;  his  second  son  died  young,  and  his  only  daugh- 
ter met  a  tragic  fate.  She  was  kissing  her  hand  down  the  stairs  as  her  father  was  going 
out  to  dine,  when  she  fell  over  the  balusters,  and  was  killed.  Moore  was  as  tender-hearted 
as  he  was  genial  and  jovial,  and  after  the  death  of  his  children  he  could  never  command 
himself  enough  to  sing  in  public.  "  Oft  in  the  Stilly  Night,"  he  sang  with  entrancing  ten- 
derness. The  song  has  been  unmercifully  parodied,  and  "fond  memory"  has  been  in- 
voked to  call  up  all  manner  of  nightmares ;  but  the  phrase  is  nevertheleless  as  beautful 
as  ever,  and  this  remains  a  perfect  poem  and  a  perfect  song.  Moore  died  at  his  home, 
Sloperton  Cottage,  Devizes,  Wiltshire,  February  25th,  1852. 


m 


^ 


1.  Oft 

2.  When 


in        the   still    -    y  night,  Ere      slum  -  ber's  chain  has     bound . 
I         re  -  mem  -  her     all     The   friends      so  link'd     to  -  geth    - 


^ 


ft*    » 


S 


P 


Fond       mem  -  'ry  brings     the  light    Of          o-ther      days    a   -   round  me.      The 

I've          seen        a  -  round     me    fall,  Like    leaves  in       win  -  try      wea     -     -     ther,       I 


&•? 


OFT  IN   THE  STILLY  NIUH'l . 

N       h  S 


7~T^:  iS 


E?± 


$ 


V- 


smilcs,    the  tears,    of      boy  -  hood's  years,  The  words     of    love    then    spo 
feel      like   one    who  treads         a  -  lone     Some  ban  -  quet  hall      de  -  sert 


ken,     The 
ed,    Whose 


?^=^^ 


eyes       that  shone,  now  dimm'd  and  gone,     The  cheer  -  ful  hearts      now  bro 
lights      are  fled,  whose  gar  -  laud's  dead,    And  all        but    he  de  -  part 


ken! 
ed  1 


Thus,          in         the    still    -    y  night,  Ere      slum  -  ber's  chain  has     bound me 


Sad          mem  -  'ry  brings     the  light     Of          o  -  ther      days    a   -   round 

-fe- 


Oft  in  the  stilly  night, 

Ere  slumber's  chain  has  bound  me, 
Fond  memory  brings  the  light 

Of  other  days  around  me. 
The  smiles,  the  tears,  of  boyhood's  years, 

The  words  of  love  then  spoken, 
The  eyes  that  shone  now  dimmed  and  gone, 

The  cheerful  hearts  now  broken  ! 

When  I  remember  all 

The  friends  so  linked  together 


I've  seen  around  me  fall, 

Like  leaves  in  wintry  weather, 
I  feel  like  one  who  treads  alone 

Some  banquet  hall  deserted, 
Whose  lights  are  fled,  whose  garlands  dead,. 

And  all  but  he  departed  ! 

Cho. — Thus,  in  the  stilly  night, 

Ere  slumber's  chain  has  bound  me 
Sad  memory  brings  the  light 
Of  other  days  around  me. 


OUR   FAMILIAR   SONGS 

THE    LIGHT    OF    OTHER    DAYS. 

"THE  Light  of  Other  Days"  is  said  to  have  been  the  most  popular  song  of  its  time  in 
England,  and  it  was  a  great  favorite  in  America.  ALFRED  BUNN,  author  of  the  words,  was 
born  about  1790.  His  life  was  spent  in  London,  where  he  was  for  several  years  manager  of 
Drury  Lane  Theatre.  He  published  a  volume  of  poems  in  1816,  a  book  called  "The 
Stage,  both  before  and  behind  the  Curtain,"  in  1840,and  in  1853,  "  Old  England  and  New 
England,"  which  records  his  impressions  of  and  adventures  in  America.  The  excitement 
concerning  the  spirit-rappings  was  then  at  its  height,  and  Mr.  Bunn  visited  a  "circle," 
where  he  was  told  the  following  particulars,  known  only  to  himself,— that  his  mother's 
name  was  Martha  Charlotte,  and  that  she  died  in  Dublin,  in  1833,  at  the  age  of  seventy- 
thrri'.  Mr.  Bunn  being  invited  to  lecture  in  Manchester,  New  Hampshire,  in  place  of 
Thfodore  Parker,  who  was  ill,  gave  an  amusing  talk,  and  when  it  was  finished  a  gentleman 
in  the  audience,  who  supposed  himself  listening  to  Parker,  said:  "Now,  my  friend,  are 
yon  convinced  T  Here  is  a  man  ascending  the  pulpit,  and,  instead  of  delivering  pure  and 
unmixed  matter  for  the  hearer's  spiritual  advantage,  throws  the  congregation  into  horse- 
laughter  by  talking  about  Shakespeare  and  the  players."  At  a  lecture  delivered  in  New- 
buryport,  Bunn  intended  reciting  the  address  to  a  skull,  in  "Hamlet,"  but  on  taking  up  the 
one* furnished  for  the  occasion,  he  discovered  a  sabre-cut  on  one  side,  and  a  bullet-hole  on 
the  other.  It  was  impossible  to  apostrophize  such  a  riddled  pate  with  "  Why  might  not 
this  be  the  skull  of  a  lawyer  f"  In  life,  it  had  been  the  thinking-apparatus  of  a  soldier  of 
the  Mexican  war.  Mr.  Bunn's  was  a  familiar  name  in  the  daily  newspaper  life  of  London, 
forty  years  ago,  and  Punch  used  to  take  pleasure  in  a  quiet  smile  at  the  slightly  pompous 
and  self-important  figure  which  he  cut.  He  died  about  1860. 

Henry  Phillips,  in  his  "  Musical  and  Personal  Recollections  during  Half  a  Century," 
tells  the  story  of  this  song:  "Mr.  Bunn  had  introduced  to  the  English  stage  Madame 
Malibran,  who  appeared  in  the  '  Sonnambula,'  and  received  one  hundred  guineas  a  night, 
which  sum,  great  as  was  her  talent,  she  did  not  draw  to  the  theatre.  Notwithstanding 
this,  Mr.  Bunn  entered  into  a  further  engagement  with  her,  and  was  very  anxious  to  bring 
her  out  in  a  new  opera.  He  consulted  me  upon  the  occasion,  and,  amongst  other  things, 
asked  me  if  I  thought  Mr.  Balfe  had  talent  enough  to  write  an  opera  for  so  great  a  vocalist. 
My  reply  was,  that  I  believed  he  had  talent  enough  for  anything.  This  settled  the  ques- 
tion ;  and  a  subject  was  immediately  decided  on,  and  the  opera  christened  '  The  Maid  of 
Artois.'  Mr.  Bunn  wrote  the  libretto,  which  being  handed  over  to  Mr.  Balfe,  he  com- 
menced his  music  to  it.  All  went  on  very  well,  till  he  conceived  that  beautiful  recitative 
and  air,  'The  light  of  other  days  is  faded.'  A  happier  thought  never  inspired  his  brain; 
and  on  scoring  it  for  the  orchestra,  an  equally  bright  idea  flashed  across  him,  in  giving  the 
solo  and  obligate  to  the  cornet-a-piston,  an  instrument  then  new  to  the  public,  and  produc- 
ing a  most  charming  and  sympathetic  effect.  .  .  .  When  I  rehearsed  l  The  Light  of 
other  days,'  Madame  Malibran,  listening  to  it,'  said,  <•  Oh,  that  is  beautiful !  I  must  have 
it  in  my  part.'  The  composer,  the  dramatist,  the  manager,  all  assured  her  that  it  could 
not  be.  « Don't  tell  me,'  she  said ;  '  I  shall  speak  to  Phillips.  He  is  good-natured,  and  I 
am  sure  if  he  knows  I  prefer  it  in  my  character,  he  will  let  me  have  it.'  Now,  there  is  no 
doubt  but  Mr.  Phillips  was  very  good-natured,  and  would  have  done  almost  anything  to 
oblige  a  lady,  but  he  was  too  wise  to  part  with  so  valuable  a  song  as  this,  and  therefore 
very  politely  declined.  She  was  greatly  annoyed,  and  said  she  would  not  play  in  the 
opera.  Her  name,  however,  having  been  announced,  left  her  no  possibility  of  escape. 
Every  rehearsal  increased  the  effect  of  my  song,  until  the  night  of  performance  arrived, 
when  my  recitative  and  song  was,  like  '  Farewell  to  the  mountain,'  most  successful,  and  I 
had  to  sing  it  three  times. 


LIGHT  OF  OTHER  DAYS. 


.15 


."  The  success  of  the  whole  work  was  great,  and  at  its  termination  we  supped  with  Mr. 
Balfe,  at  his  lodgings  in  the  Quadrant,  and  found  there,  assembled  to  meet  us,  many  emi- 
nent artists.  Malibran  had  arrived  before  me.  I  rang  at  the  street  door,  but  as  when  that 
was  opened  there  was  no  light  in  the  passage,  I  called  out  to  the  servant,  to  ascertain  how 
far  I  was  to  ascend,  when  Malibran,  hearing  my  voice,  ran  to  the  top  of  the  stairs,  and  said, 
'Quick,  quick,  give  rue  a  candle! — here  is  "The  light  of  other  days"  coming  up  in  th& 
dark.'" 


1    The  light       of      o  -  ther  days    is      fa 
2.  The  leaf    which  au-tumn  tem-pests  with 


ded,   And       all     their  glo  -  ries 
er,    The     birds  which  then  take 


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hopes        too  bright         to         last;                               The       world         which  morning's    man  -  tie 
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36 


OUR  FAMILIAR  SONGS, 


;^fc=^=               =p-       =*=?=   E^T:= 

•4s     N-... 

<ry-*  —                      »  •       —  *    i"*n^   —  *_ 

doud    •     -     -    ed,           Shines  forth        '  with  pur    -     -    er      ra 
ru    ....    in              In    gloom     -     ful  life              dis  -  pi 

Jf  fftt  W  ^  1  '—                             ~~3 

—  «  —  J_  —  1 
ys,                               But   the 
iys,                            But   the 

I  J  I  J    ||   |^q 

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!  "  J     =j=*--i= 

«  parte. 

fe^-*       f      "      ll?  '  L*- 

LpV  i      j  r  ;  h  hi  i        i    ^ 

_. 

Cf-^jt^                 J    J    J       =i  —  ^ 

heart          ne'er  feelw,    in      sor  -  row  shroud     -     -     ed,         The 
heart             a-  lone    sees     no      re  -  new    -    -    -    ing,        The 

light        of      oth     -     er 
light         of       oth     -     er 

X  '**              v  »          -^  1  — 

—  j  4-9  —  i  —    —  ^  *~"^ 

Iff  —         ^7*  *  *  -^  5>  —                                 -^ 

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•   ,        *                 «        I 

_   9rt                          91 

—  Sft--                       —  i«  —         —  ft  i*  —            —  i«  — 

-H  =  1 

§ 


'days, 
days, 


ne'er  feels,   in       sor  -  row  shroud 
a  -  lone    sees     no       re  -  new     • 


-    -     ed,  The 
ing.  The 


j] 


light         of   oth  -  or  days, 
light         of   oth  -  cr  tla\>. 


BREAK,  BREAK,  BREAK. 

BREAK,  BREAK,  BREAK. 


37 


ALFEED  TENNYSON,  the  first  of  living  poets,  is  less  known  outside  of  his  poetry,  as  a 
man  among  men,  than  almost  any  of  his  professional  brothers.  How  he  looks  and  speaks, 
what  he  loves  and  hates,  what  is  his  creed,  religious  or  political,  have  not  been  revealed, 
even  to  his  own  countrymen.  Mr.  James  T.  Field's  lecture  on  him  has  afforded  almost  the 
only  glimpses  we  have  of  the  huge  and  rather  unkempt  person,  gruff  manners,  and  egotis- 
tical conversation,  which  make  up  a  somewhat  unattractive  picture.  Even  the  date  of 
Tennyson's  birth,  which  took  place  in  Somerby,  Lincolnshire,  where  his  father  was  rector, 
seems  to  be  in  doubt,  being  given  as  1809  or  1810.  He  was  the  third  of  twelve  children, 
and  those  who  have  heard  Mr.  Fields,  will  recall  the  amusing  incident  that  reveals  a 
family  trait.  A  bold  hunter  had  bearded  the  lion  in  his  den,  and  on  being  shown  into 
Tennyson's  reception-room,  saw  a  taciturn-looking  gentleman  sitting  there,  evidently  at 
home.  Approaching  him,  the  visitor  said  blandly,  "  Have  I  the  great  pleasure  of  beholding 
Mr.  Tennyson  ?  "  The  tall  figure  drew  itself  up  at  full  length,  and  in  a  gloomy  voice  re- 
plied, "I  am  not  Alfred, — I  am  Septimus,  the  most  morbid  of  them  all."  The  perfect 
lyric  "  Break,  break,  break,"  was  written  to  commemorate  the  same  event  that  called 
forth  •'  In  Memoriam,"  the  death  of  the  author's  early  friend,  Arthur  Henry  Hallam,  son 
of  the  historian  of  the  "  Middle  Ages."  The  lament  was  given  its  appropriate  musical  ex- 
pression, in  the  melody  composed  by  WILLIAM  E.  DEMPSTER,  who  set  other  lyrics  of  Ten- 
nyson's which  have  become  so  well  known,  that  a  choice  for  this  book  was  as  difficult  as 
it  was  necessary.  "  The  May  Queen,"  and  "  Turn,  Fortune,  turn  thy  wheel,"  will  readily 
recur.  The  music  was  dedicated  to  Mrs.  Browning, — not  the  poetess,  but  an  old  and 
valued  friend  of  the  composer';-,  still  residing  at  Aberdeen,  Scotland.  Mr.  Dempster's 
character  was  well  calculated  to  call  forth  life-long  friendships.  Mrs.  Browning  writes, 
"  He  was  as  amiable,  kind,  and  warm-hearted  a  man  as  I  ever  knew,  and  his  moral  character 
was  unexceptionable." 


/T       /  '       <3                     rv 
Gfe     fc:      e  L 

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—  -  —  S3  —  ^H 

^Z  ,  1  

Break,              break, 

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Ou      thy  cold    gray  stones,   O       Sea! 


r  r  r  r 


Break,  break,  break, 

On  thy  cold  gray  stones,  O  Sea ! 
And  I  would  that  my  tongue  could  utter 

The  thoughts  that  arise  in  me. 
O  well  for  the  fisherman's  boy, 

That  he  shouts  with  his  sister  at  play ! 
O  well  for  the  sailor  lad, 

That  he  sings  in  his  boat  on  the  bay  ! 
Break,  break,  break, 
On  thy  cold  gray  stones,  O  Sea ! 


-T-T- 

Break,  break,  break, 

At  the  foot  of  thy  crags,  O  Sea ! 
But  the  tender  grace  of  a  day  that  is  dead 

Will  never  come  back  to  me. 
And  the  stately  ships  go  on 

To  their  haven  under  the  hill; 
But,  O  for  the  touch  of  a  vanished  hand, 

And  the  sound  of  a  voice  that  is  still ! 
Break,  break,  break, 

At  the  foot  of  thy  crags,  O  Sea ! 


SONGS  OF  HOME. 


If  solid  happiness  we  prize, 
Within  ourbreast  this  jewel  lies, 

And  they  are  fools  who  roam ; 
The  world  hath  nothing  to  bestow, — 
From  our  own  selves  our  bliss  must  flow, 

Jind  that  dear  hut,  our  home. 

—Nathaniel  Cotton. 


The  fireside  wisdom  that  enrings, 
With  light  from  heaven,  familiar  things. 

—  James  Bussell  Lowell. 


SONGS  OF  HOME, 


HOME,  SWEET  HOME. 

THOUGH  in  later  years  JOHN  HOWARD  PAYNE  became  the  "homeless  bard  of  home," 
the  home  of  his  childhood  must  have  been  delightful.  He  was  born  in  New  York  City, 
June  9,  1792,  and  was  one  of  a  large  group  of  brothers  and  sisters. 

While  he  was  a  little  fellow,  his  father  moved  to  East  Hampton,  the  most  easterly  town 
in  Long  Island,  situated  upon  its  jutting  southern  fork.  It  was  a  romantic  place,  settled 
by  fine  New  England  families,  who  lived  in  amicable  relations  with  the  red  men  that  lin- 
gered long  and  linger  still  about  this  ancient  home  of  the  Montauk  tribe.  Eev.  Lyman 
Beecher  was  preaching  in  the  church  upon  the  one  wide  village  street,  when  Mr.  Payne 
went  there  to  become  principal  of  the  Clinton  Academy,  then  a  flourishing  school,  one  of 
the  earliest  upon  the  island.  In  this  town  the  little  Paynes  roamed  among  pleasures, 
though  not  among  palaces,  and  their  home,  which  is  still  kept  intact  by  the  inhabitants  of 
the  quaint  old  place,  although  "homely,"  indeed,  to  modern  eyes,  must  have  been  quite 
fine  enough  in  its  day.  The  Payne  family  held  a  high  position,  and  the  children  had  the 
advantage  of  cultured  society  abroad  as  well  as  at  home.  The  family  moved  to  Boston, 
where  the  father  became  an  eminent  teacher.  John  Howard  was  a  leader  in  sports  and 
lessons  too.  He  raised  a  little  military  company,  which  he  once  marched  to  general  train- 
ing, where  Major-General  Elliot  extended  a  formal  invitation  to  the  gallant  young  captain, 
who  led  his  troop  into  the  ranks  to  be  reviewed  with  the  veterans  of  the  Eevolution. 

Mr.  Payne  was  a  fine  elocutionist,  and  in  the  "  speaking,"  which  formed  a  prominent 
part  of  the  school  programme,  his  son,  John  Howard,  soon  excelled.  Literary  tastes 
cropped  out  also,  and  he  published  boyish  poems  and  sketches  in  the  The  Fly,  a  paper 
edited  by  Samuel  Woodworth. 

When  thirteen  years  old,  Payne  became  clerk  in  a  mercantile  house  in  New  York.  He 
secretly  edited  a  little  paper  called  the  Thespian  Mirror.  Dr.  Francis,  in  his  "  Old  New 
York,"  says  of  him  at  this  period :  "  A  more  engaging  youth  could  not  be  imagined ;  he 
won  all  hearts  by  the  beauty  of  his  person,  his  captivating  address,  the  premature  richness 
of  his  mind,  and  his  chaste  and  flowing  utterance."  A  benevolent  gentleman,  who  learned 
the  fact,  and  saw  indications  of  great  promise,  sent  young  Payne  to  Union  College  at  his 
own  expense.  His  career  there  was  suddenly  closed  by  the  death  of  his  mother  and  pecu- 
niary losses  of  his  father.  He  decided  to  try  the  stage  in  hopes  of  assisting  the  family, 
and  when  seventeen  years  old  he  achieved  a  wonderful  success  as  Young  Norval,  at  the 
Park  Theatre,  in  New  York.  He  then  played  in  Philadelphia  and  Baltimore,  and  was  act- 
ing in  his  old  home,  Boston,  when  his  father  died.  He  soon  sailed  for  England,  antf  ap- 
peared in  Drury  Lane  Theatre,  when  but  twenty  years  of  age.  In  1826  he  edited  a  London 
dramatic  paper,  called  The  Opera  Glass,  and  for  twenty  years  he  experienced  more  than 
the  ordinary  mingling  of  pleasant  and  evil  fortune.  Payne  was  much  praised,  but  on  the 
whole  his  life  was  sorrowful  and  hard.  He  wrote  several  successful  dramas,  and  his  tra- 
gedy of  "Brutus,"  which  was  written  for  Edmund  Kean,  is  still  played  occasionally. 


42  OUK  FAM1L1AU   SONGS. 

While  Charles  Kemble  was  manager  of  Covent  Garden  Theatre,  in  1823,  he  bought  a  quan- 
tity of  Payne's  writings.  Among  them  was  a  play  entitled  "Clari,  the  Maid  of  Milan.'* 
Payne  was  almost  starving  in  an  attic  in  the  Palais  Royal,  Paris,  when  at  Kemble's  request, 
he  altered  this  play  into  an  opera,  and  introduced  into  it  the  words  of  « Home,  Sweet 
Home."  It  contained  two  stanzas— a  third  and  fourth— which  have  since  been  dropped. 
Miss  Tree,  elder  sister  of  Mrs.  Charles  Kean,  was  the  prima  donna  of  the  opera,  and  sang 
the  song. '  It  won  for  her  a  wealthy  husband,  and  enriched  all  who  handled  it,  while  the 
author  did  not  receive  even  the  £25  which  he  reckoned  as  the  share  that  this  opera  should 
count  in  the  £230  for  which  he  sold  his  manuscripts.  One  hundred  thousand  copies  of  tin- 
song  were  sold  in  a  single  year,  and  it  brought  the  original  publisher  two  thousand  guineas 
(over  $10,000)  within  two  years  from  its  publication.  Payne  returned  to  this  country  in 
1832,  and  nine  years  later  he  received  the  appointment  of  American  Consul  at  Tunis. 
The  brief  sketches  of  Payne's  life  in  the  usual  sources  of  information  are  silent  about  any 
removal  from  this  office,  but  here  are  his  own  words :  "  How  often  have  I  been  in  the 
heart  of  Paris,  Berlin,  London,  or  some  other  city,  and  have  heard  persons  singing  or  hand- 
organs  playing  '  Sweet  Home/  without  having  a  shilling  to  buy  myself  the  next  meal  or  a 
place  to  lay  my  head !  The  world  has  literally  sung  my  song  until  every  heart  is  familiar 
with  its  melody,  yet  I  have  been  a  wanderer  from  my  boyhood.  My  country  has  turned 
me  ruthlessly  from  office,  and  in  my  old  age  I  have  to  submit  to  humiliation  for  my  bread." 
With  due  consideration  for  the  sorrows  of  his  career,  we  cannot  forget  that  the  carefully 
educated  youth  forsook  his  old  home  and  associations  and  voluntarily  attached  himself  to 
the  fortunes  of  a  class  of  literary  adventurers  who  lived  by  their  wits.  He  died  at  Tunis, 
April  10,  1852.  The  singular  antithesis  between  his  fame  and  his  fate  has  often  been 
pathetically  dwelt  upon,  but  never  better  expressed  than  by  William  H.  C.  Hosnier,  in  these 
lines: 


Unhappy  Payne  ! — no  pleasure-grounds  were  thine, 
With  rustic  seats  o'ershadowed  by  the  vine; 
No  children  grouped  around  thy  chair  in  glee, 
Like  blossoms  dinging  to  the  parent  tree; 
No  wife  to  cheer  thy  mission  upon  earth, 


And  share  thine  hours  of  sorrow  and  of  mirth, 
Or  greet  thy  coining  with  love's  purest  kiss — 
Joy  that  survives  the  wreck  of  Eden's  bliss. 
Hands  of  the  stranger,  ring  the  mournful  knell- 
Homeless  the  bard  who  sang  of  home  so  well ! 


In  1883  Payne's  remains  were  brought  to  the  United  States.  They  lay  in  state  in  New 
York,  and  were  then  taken  to  Washington  and  entombed,  with  appropriate  ceremonies. 
The  incident  recalled  to  an  old  concert-goer  a  scene  in  that  city  in  December,  1850, 
when  Jenny  Lind  sang  "  Home,  Sweet  Home,"  with  Payne  in  a  front  seat. 

Payne  wrote  two  additional  stanzas  to  "  Home,  Sweet  Home"  for  an  American  lady  in 
London.  They  are  unfamiliar,  and  unworthy  of  notice  as  poetry;  but  for  that  matter, 
what  can  we  say  of  the  real  merit  of  the  original  ?  If  we  did  not  love  it,  we  should  laugh 
at  it.  Here  are  the  lines : 


To  us,  in  despite  of  the  absence  of  years, 
How  sweet  the  remembrance  of  home  still  appears; 
From  allurements  abroad,  which  but  flatter  the  eye'. 
The  unsatisfied  heart  turns,  and  saya  with  a  sigh, 

Home,  home,  sweet,  sweet  home ! 

There's  no  place  like  home, 

There's  no  place  like  home! 


Your  exile  is  blest  with  all  fate  can  bestow ; 
But  mine  has  been  checkered  with  many  a  woe ! 
Yet .  tho'  dim-rent  our  fortunes,  our  tho'ts  are  the  same. 
And  both,  as  we  think  of  Columbia,  exclaim, 

Home,  home,  sweet,  sweet  home ! 

There's  no  place  like  home, 

There's  no  place  like  home ! 


Parke,  in  his  «  Musical  Memoirs,"  says  that  the  air  to  which  «  Home,  Sweet  Home"  is 
set,  in  from  a  German  opera;  but  all  other  authorities  agree  iu  calling  it  a  Sicilian  air 
adapted  by  SIR  HENRY  ROWLEY  BISHOP.  Donizetti  introduced  a  slightly  altered  form  of 
the  air  into  his  opera  of  -Anna  Helena,"  at  the  suggestion  of  Madame  Pasta,  the  celebrated 

singer. 


HOME,    SWEET   HOME. 


'Mid     pleas    -    ures       and  pal     -     a-ces  though        we   may      roam, Be    it 


ev    -   -    er         so  hum   -   ble,  there's  no        place     like  home!... 


r  n  P 


skies      seems  to       hal     -     low    us      there,....    Which,  seek....    thro'      the  world,     is    ne'er 


m 


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mot  with  else  -  where. 


Home  ! 


home ! sweet,     sweet 


'  |  *  J  *      I  *  J  * 


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44 

'Mid  pleasures  and  palaces  though  we  may  roam, 
Be  it  ever  so  humble,  there's  no  place  like  home ! 
A  charm  from  the  skies  seems  to  hallow  us  there, 
Which,  seek  through  the  world,  is  ne'er  met 

with  elsewhere. 

Home  !  home !  sweet,  sweet  home ! 
There's  no  place  like  home  ;  there's  no  place  like 

home. 

An  exile  from  home  splendor  dazzles  in  vain, 
Oh  !  give  me  my  lowly,  thatch'd  cottage  again ; 
The  birds  singing  gaily,  that  come  at  my  call; 
Cive  me  them,  with  the  peace  of  mind,  dearer 

than  all. 

Home  !  home  !  sweet,  sweet  home ! 
There's  no  place  like  home  ;  there's  no  place  like 

home. 


OUR  FAMILIAR  SONQS. 


How  sweet  'tis  to  sit  'neath  a  fond  father's  smile, 
And  the  cares  of  a  mother  to  soothe  and  beguile. 
Let  others  delight  'mid  new  pleasures  to  roam, 
But  give   me,   oh!    give    me    the    pleasures    of 

home. 

Home  !  home  !  sweet,  sweet  home  ! 
But   give    me,    oh!    give    me    the    pleasures  of 

home. 

To  thee  I'll  return,  over-burdened  with  care. 
The   heart's   dearest   solace   will    smile  on    me 

there ; 

No  more  from  that  cottage  again  will  I  roam, 
Be  it  ever  so  humble,  there's  no  place  like  home. 

Home  !  home  !  sweet,  sweet  home  ! 
There's  no  place  like  home ;  there's  no  place  like 

home. 


THE  INGLE  SIDE. 

HEW  AINSLIE,  author  of  "The  Ingle  Side,"  was  born  April  5,  1792,  in  Ayrshire,  Scot- 
land, where  his  father,  like  those  of  some  poets  of  loftier  fame,  managed  the  estates  of  a 
nobleman.  He  was  educated  first  by  a  private  tutor,  and  then  at  a  parish  school.  At  the 
age  of  seventeen  he  was  sent  to  Glasgow  to  study  law— which  he  heartily  hated. 
he  obtained  a  clerkship  in  the  General  Register  House  in  Edinburgh,  and,  later,  became 
amanuensis  to  Dugald  Stewart,  whose  last  writings  he  copied. 

In  1822,  Ainslie  and  his  wife  emigrated  to  the  United  States,  to  better  their  fortunes. 
He  bought  a  small  farm  in  Rensselaer  County,  N.  Y.,  but  three  years  afterward  he  left  it, 
to  try  living  with  Robert  Owen's  community,  at  New  Harmony,  Indiana,— a  year  of  which 
thoroughly  satisfied  him.  Next  he  formed  a  partnership  with  a  company  of  brewers  in 
Cincinnati.  Ho  built  a  branch  establishment  in  Louisville,  which  was  swept  away  by  a 
flood,  and  another  at  New  Albany,  Indiana,  which  was  destroyed  by  fire.  He  entered  upou 
no  more  ventures  of  his  own,  but  employed  himself  in  superintending  the  enterprises  ot 
more  fortunate  men,  living  for  a  time  in  Jersey  City,  N.  J.  From  some  sketchy  writing  of 
his  own,  in  a  little  volume  of  "  Scottish  Songs,  Ballads,  and  Poems,"  which  he  published  in 
New  York,  I  make  the  following  extracts : 

"  In  my  fourteenth  year  I  was  taken  from  school  on  account  of  my  health,  and  was 
put  into  the  fields  to  harden  my  constitution.  Amongst  my  companions  I  found  a  number 
of  intelligent  young  men,  who  had  got  up,  in  a  large  granary,  a  private  theatre,  where  they 
occasionally  performed,  for  the  benefit  of  the  neighborhood,  'The  Gentle  Shepherd/ 
« Douglas,'  etc.,  and  in  due  time  I  was,  to  my  great  joy,  found  tall  enough,  lassie-looking 
enough,  and  flippant  enough  to  take  the  part  of  the  pert  'Jenny,'  and  the  first  relish  I  got 
for  anything  like  sentimental  song,  was  from  learning  and  singing  the  songs  in  that  pas- 
toral; auld  ballads  that  my  mother  sung — and  she  sang  many,  and  sang  them  well — 
having  been  all  the  poetry  I  had  cared  for. 

"  It  was  toward  the  end  of  this  most  pleasant  period  that  I  first '  burst  into  song/  and 
I  am  inclined  to  think  that  I  broke  into  it  wrong  end  foremost;  sweet  songs  having  sent 
me  a  wooing,  instead  of  wooing  having  set  me  a  singing.  Indeed,  my  planting  companions 
strove  to  convince  me  that  my '  sweet  songs '  were  as  silly  as  they  were  simple ;  but  I 
braved  both  rhyme  and  reason,  and  kept  scratching  away.  Well  do  I  remember  how  I  fell 


THE   INGLE   SIDE.  45 

in  love  with  the  sweet  Jessie  of  one  of  my  earliest  lays.  Being  about  my  own  age  and  size,  she 
used  to  loan  me  some  of  her  'braws'  to  busk  me  up  for  my  parts,  and  instruct  me  how  to 
deport  myself  in  gown  and  kirtle.  Then  her  gentle  hands  would  arrange  my  kerchief  and  fix 
flowers  in  my  cap,  her  pretty  face  bobbing,  and  her  sweet  breath  blowing  all  the  time  about  my 
bewildered  head,  till, — how  could  I  help  it,  Jessie? — I  fell  owre  the  lugs  in  love  wr*  thee." 

Mr.  Ainslie  paid  a  visit  to  his  native  land,  and,  before  returning,  published  a  volume 
entitled  "  A  Pilgrimage  to  the  Land  of  Burns."  He  spent  the  last  years  of  his  life  in  St. 
Louis,  where  he  died  in  March,  1878. 

The  music  of  "  The  Ingle  Side  "  was  composed  by  T.  V.  WIESENTHAL,  a  German  music- 
teacher,  in  Pennsylvania. 


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f(T)           1     *^                    I/               1  1    1    ^•^••^    ^*^""^  i           J  '  •          v 

1 

i 

/•Vl;      /d                  «      4                         &                           n                                 s> 

2              II 

&  it  ~  -  —  -f-r  —  —  «—  h-           3  H  ^  

EEiEdi 

46 


OUR   FAMILIAR   SONGS. 

MY   AIN    FIRESIDE. 


ELIZABETH  HAMILTON,  author  of  the  words  of  "My  Ain  Fireside,"  was  born  in  Belfast, 
Ireland.  Her  noble  Scottish  ancestors  had  left  their  country  on  account  of  religious  opin- 
ions. Miss  Hamilton's  father  died  a  year  after  her  birth,  leaving  his  widow  destitute,  with 
three  children.  An  aunt  in  Scotland  took  the  little  Elizabeth,  and  when,  soon  after,  the 
mother  died  also,  permanently  adopted  her.  The  girl  was  carefully  educated  by  this  aunt 
whose  care  she  rewarded  with  the  most  faithful  love.  After  the  death  of  nearly  all  their 
kindred,  Miss  Hamilton  and  her  sister  made  their  home  in  Edinburgh.  Here  Miss, — or, 
as  she  was  by  courtesy  entitled,  Mrs. — Hamilton,  received  the  attention  and  friendship 
which  she  deserved,  and  which  her  then  popular  writings, — among  them,  the  story  of  "  The 
Cottagers  of  Glenburuie," — naturally  brought  her.  In  youth,  she  formed  an  unfortunate 
attachment,  and  she  never  married.  In  hope  of  recovering  her  health,  she  visited  the 
baths  of  Harrowgate,  England,  where  she  died  in  1816. 

At  one  time  Mrs.  Hamilton  left  her  home,  to  take  care  of  the  motherless  family  of  a 
nobleman.  She  remained  with  them  six  months,  and  it  was  on  returning  to  her  own 
hearthstone  that  she  wrote  the  song,  "  My  Ain  Fireside." 


A    h 

h 

K  Ps  — 

~K  N  ^—  i 

jf  L*  (\        f- 

• 

-• 

—  N  R    J 

•               m    * 

r  •  i*    * 

KO     H  M* 

—  f  J- 

J  .     /    *  1 

CJ- 

-1  —  5—  f  —  *-=—  *  —  = 

1.         O       I       hae  soen  great  anes  and   sat       in  great  ha's,  'Mang  lords  and  'mang   la  -  dies     a' 
2.  Ancemair,  heav'n  be  prais'd  I  roundmy  ain  heartsome  in  -  gle,  Wi'  the  friends  o'  my   youth     I     cor- 
3.       Nae  false  -  hood  to    dread,           riae   mal  -  ice     to      fear,     But  truth     to     de  -  "light    me,  and 

Jrfir;r5  1  —       —  is  —  M  —                   —  J  »  *—.  —                                — 

m  > 

V 

8 

* 

^==j= 

£              « 

«J 

^ 

L: 

—  ;  m 

=1- 

m 

E 

«          « 

F  ^ 

«           i* 

&\bt 

r-=i  — 

• 

f  

-^ 

-f—  1 

*—  — 

r  F— 

iA> 

r    r 
k 

^  ;   J    p 

-r-f 

/ 

>  • 

! 

—  f— 

*  r  — 

f  —  f  1  1*  •  P  —  Gr~~ 

.  g  g  -i 

few  w—.  —  < 

K  •• 

, 

—  /- 

cov  -  er*d  wi'  brawf :  But    a    sight    sae    de  -  light  -  ful       I     trow      I     ne'er  spied    As     the 
dial  -  }y    min  -  gle ;      Nae     forms    to    com  -  pel      me       to    seem   wae     or    glad.      I     may 
friend -ship   to    cheer;       O5          a'     roads  to     hap  -  pi  -  ness    ev  -  er    were  tried     There's 


bon  -  nio  blvthe  blink  o'  mv  ain  fire  -  side, 
laii^h  w)nn  I'm  HUT  -  ry,  and  sigh  when  I'm  sad. 
nane  half  sae  sure  as  ane's  ain  fire  -side; 


v 
My 
My 


ain  fire  -  side, 
ain  fire  -  side, 
ain  fire  -  side, 


my 
my 
my 


MY  AIN  FIRESIDE, 


47 


ifek      f8*"8  —  *~    P     ~&~ 

r—                                                —  R  V           -N-, 

~r~-  —  w  —  j—  -?*  —  :fl  —  ?- 

-^ar-f*  1  n 

am         fire   -  side,       O 

ff     E    C     J-   ^—  ^ 

sweet       is       the      blink        o'      my 

I-4--3            i     •*     J  i 

ain          fire   -  side. 

—  -^3  —  i  —  u 

tx                                                                                    U 

rr-         —  *  C  ff  £  1 

^  •    J  —  , 

-f—       —  f 

i  —  p-^  P_, 

i.  j  i  ^JJ 

&*•—                              —  f  p  

4  

?  —  M  —  H 

r£  E  ^—  ti 

-  —  r  1  —  '  k  —  Lf  £ 

The  old  air  to  which  these  words  are  sung  ^ 

7  —  F  P=f  5  —  F  —  u 

ras  called  "  Toddlin'  Hame."    Mrs.  Hamil- 

ton's  original  words  read :  — 

O,  I  hae  seen  great  anes,  and  sat  in  great  ha's, 
'Mang   lords   and  'mang   ladies  a'    covered   wi' 

braws  : 

At  feasts  made  for  princes,  wi'  princes  I've  been, 
Where  the  grand  shine  o'  splendour  has  dazzled 

my  e'en ; 

But  a  sight  sae  delightfu'  I  trow  I  ne'er  spied, 
As  the  bonnie,  blythe  blink  o'  my  ain  fireside. 
My  ain  fireside,  my  ain  fireside  ! 
O,  cheery's  the  blink  o'  my  ain  fireside  ! 

My  ain  fireside,  my  ain  fireside  ! 

O,  there's  nought  to  compare  wi'  my  ain 
fireside ! 

Ance    mair,    Gude    be    praised,    round    my   ain 

heartsome  ingle, 

Wi'  the  friends  o'  my  youth  I  cordially  mingle ; 
Nae  forms  to  compel  me  to  seem  wae  or  glad  — 
I  may  laugh  when  I'm  merry,  and  sigh  when  I'm 

sad; 
Nae  falsehood  to  dread,  and  nae  malice  to  fear, 


But  truth  to  delight  me  and  friendship  to  cheer. 
O'  a'  roads  to  happiness  ever  were  tried, 
There's  nane  half  so  sure  as  ane's  ain  fireside  ; 

My  ain  fireside,  my  ain  fireside ! 

O,  there's  nought  to  compare  wi'  my  ain 
fireside ! 

When  I  draw  in  my  stool  on  my  cosy  hearth 

stane, 
My  heart  loups  sae  light  I  scarce  ken't  for  my 

ain ; 

Care's  down  on  the  wind,  it  is  clean  out  of  sight, 
Past  troubles  they  seem   but  as  dreams  o'  the 

night. 

There  but  kind  voices,  kind  faces  I  see, 
And  mark  saf t  affection  glent  fond  frae  ilk  e'e  ; 
Nae  fleechings  o'  flattery,  nae  boastings  o'  pride, — 
'Tis  heart  speaks  to  heart  at  ane's  ain  fireside. 

My  ain  ain  fireside,  my  ain  fireside ! 

O,  there's  nought  to  compare  wi'  ane's  ain 
fireside ! 


CASTLES   IN   THE   AIR. 

JAMES  BALLANTINE,  author  of  "Castles  in  the  Air,"  was  born  in  Edinburgh,  June  11, 
1808.  His  father,  who  was  a  brewer,  died  when  James,  his  only  son  and  youngest  child, 
was  but  ten  years  old.  A  common  school  education  was  all  the  boy  could  obtain,  before 
he  felt  that  he  must  assist  his  mother  and  sisters.  He  was  apprenticed  to  a  house-painter, 
but  when  he  was  twenty  years  old,  attended  the  University  of  Edinburgh,  to  study  anatomy. 
He  became  interested  in  painting  on  glass,  and  a  genuine  revival  of  the  beautiful  art  of 
decorative  glass-painting  followed  his  efforts.  The  Royal  Commissioners  of  the  Fine  Arts 
awarded  him  their  prize  for  the  best  specimens  and  designs  for  the  painting  of  the  windows 
of  the  House  of  Lords,  and  the  entire  work  was  entrusted  him.  He  published  a  popular 
treatise  on  stained  glass,  a  collection  of  his  poems,  and  other  works.  He  founded  a  large 
establishment  in  Edinburgh,  where  the  most  elaborate  stained-glass  work  is  designed  and 
executed.  His  death  took  place  in  that  city,  December  18,  1877. 


OUR  FAMIL1AK 


1.  The     bon   -   nie,    bon  -  nie 

2.  He      sees muc  -  klc 

3.  Sic        a night     in 


bairn 
cas 
win 


who     sits     pok   -    ing       in         the      aes 
ties-...         tow  -  'ring      to        the    moon! 
ter may     weel    mak'     him    cauld: 


f 


§ 


rtb  —  r-    J   J     r 

-^  f  —  r 

~ft  —  -^  ^  N- 

•        «i 

5       ^  —  ri  —  £  ^ 

—  4  —  p 

fire                    wi'       his 

His        chin      up    -    on 

A             N 

his  buff    -    -     y       hand 

will  soon         mak'      him 

an  Id; 

V                                  \  -- 

.. 

ffrf9  •  =1  —            —  =*— 

^  =1  £  =*— 

S  s?  P  =1— 

(  =1  

W—                       —•  — 

—  •(—              —  -+- 

—  H  

i             *                    * 

•                      • 
\  —  f  f  1 

•9-                    »- 

-f-: 

^v                —  =1  L  =»— 

—  L  =1  L  =1— 

\     1          i          f=^=j 

1  r  ;  i    i 

[,  1 

H?  b  3 

I                       ^ 

LiLJ  1 

^  

^  s  1 

:-     --i— 

Laugh  -  ing      :ii 

the 
mb-ling 
brent 

P  T\ 

fuf  -  fin  lowe,  
up  and  <li  >u  ii..... 
sac  braid  O  

i  —  j  .   ^^  j  .  —  <- 

what....       sees          he 
bleez  -  ing      wi'            a 
pray     that     dad     -     dy 

J          1                               r^"'^         1 

there? 
flare,  — 
Care 

His       brow      is 

)°         J  ^  — 

r= 

F=; 

^  r^ 

bus 
* 

F= 

„ 
3 

• 
:      -* 

a 

"i 

^*^  -•    n        ^        - 

»                  < 

= 

i  J         j= 

9 

—v 

i  i 

i  1 

^E^ 

Ha!       the     young....       dream -er's        big  -  ging      cas     -    ties      in 

>ow       he        loups!  as       they      glim    -    mer      in 

Wad        let      the      wean        a  .  lane         wi'        his        cas     -     ties      in 


the  air.  His 
the  air.  For 
the  air.  He'll 


CASTLES  IN  THE  AIR. 


49 


« 


4= 


-y 


wee chub  -  by        face,  and      his        tou    -   zie    cur  -  ly        pow, 

a'         sae  sage     he        looks, what      can        the    lad  -die        ken? 

glow    -   er      at      the        fire! and       he'll      keek    at      the       light! 


Are 
He's 
But 


i*         J                     J 

_P                           Is           1           J        i      1 

F   '                  * 

J    •            «           J                                        «•    J 

IUJ           !  ,            IX        !,        IX 

u 

•                              *              *   J 

laugh     -    -    -    ing     and 
think"  -   ing      up   -  on 
mo     -     -     -     ny    spark  - 

nod  -  ding 
nae  -  thing,              like 
ling    stars                 are 

0 

to           the    daiic   -  ing    lowe  :    He'll 
ino     -     ny    might  -   y      men;  —   A 
swal    -  low'd    up         by     night;     Aul  - 

N                       \     < 

_M      1                                                               1                           tf                          1 

1                       jJ                     1 

frrv  ^  —           —  — 

**|                     i                                           J 

*1              m              1              J        <  3     *            "1 

8  {  <-j|  —  ;  

^3^ 

±_^ 

<  P     ' 

(^*)*           ^               ^r  i            'i*")* 

L/  |              _/<*V 

—  »  5  •  5-4^  5  1 

\  ^^7         J           "^     IrH^      ••  ^^^ 

-^  1      /!V-  ^& 

—  F  "  H  SI  <H  :  ^  
i  u  -?-i«  —  ;:  

ZC5          F  '       ff        S 

fisx         J          _.N       _j^      »  • 

i                    ^^B^^^2                                                      M             '    *                '        * 

E2           *  •       »        ^ 

3      *     J     *  '                      i 

tr 

brown     his       ro   -   sy 

cheeks,           and            singe    his     sun    -   ny       hair, 
think             a  sma'  thin0'  mak's      us       stare,          There  are 

der       een     than    his 

are           glarn     -     -     our  -  ed       by          a       glare,        Hearts  are 

L'    I                 PC                           I 

—           K              ^        Ki              M^           K' 

^T     f)              |                          ^                     M 

v          ^                                           ^         •                                                                                                                                                                                  a  M                                                       M 

KjV-  —  -*-^^^^J-     —  r*  ^^ 

^  ^^  —  ^4^^^^ 

y 

^    ±"^V 

^r^i         rrr      >v> 

/^^v*                      ^                 1                          ™ 

•                                                                              «          r 

V^V'*                i               • 

r                                                                            r 

i      !             ft  III     — 

A                                                          . 

V  i                 m 

it            K  1        ^           N         P           S                                    II 

jjCg       •  •      i*       f         j 

i*                     r                                  J^ 

r^h      r      PL      " 

m    \      *  '                 *          J 

sSZ           -          5        ix 

1                     *  •       •     1                                         *          m  '                    \\ 

Glow  -  'ring      at        the 

imps                wi'      their      cas    -    ties       in         the         air. 

bro    -    -    -    ken,    heads 

are             tur'nd      wi'        cas   -    ties       in         the        air. 

/      X\y          .        ,_.  j»—  ^*  '  

1                      J           m       -    •  *              -    •           m     \                       P 

1             \^\/                                              ^^_                                                                            1^^^'^^ 

0  •       •       ^-                    *-             »    1  SI  •   •               II 

/ 

P 

x-  —  —  —                               ^.     ^                -=  : 

i                          r    ^ 

-^-                                   >                  ...    £  

K-:      -^  —  P3E 

^—  /ji     A          ^ 

i  —  ^^  —  *~^  —  —  r   i.     i.  —  i  —  i  i  -" 

(4) 


90 


OUll    FAMILIAR    SOM!S. 

WIFE,  CHILDREN,  AND  FRIENDS. 


WILLIAM  ROBERT  SPENCER,  author  of  the  following  song,  is  a  minor  English  poet. 
whose  writings  are  principally  descriptive  of  various  phases  of  elegant  life.  Every  school- 
girl has  wept  over  his  poem,  "  Beth-Gelert,  the  Good  Greyhound."  This  song  was  widely 
popular  in  American  households  during  the  early  part  of  the  present  century. 


Allegretto. 


Arranged  for  this  work  by  EDWARD  S.  CUMMINGS. 


i=§ 


I.  When  the    black  -   let  -   ter'd       list  to      the       gods      was      pn-    -  sont    -       ed,    The 


3: 


•=m—  =± 

£=|j^Ej 


3 


-*- 


, 


«j s 


* 1- 


list       of  what  Fate       to  each     mor  -  tal      in  -  tends,     At   the    long  string   of       ills         a    kind 


*=f=% 


=t*=; 


II 


f=fi 


•« j i *       • * 


1 


=?<— f — f — f  '      t »z:I=f=g=: 

:=Ij=^==g= — [? 9=^=1-^ Ej=^= 


5=^5 


^C  -  ff_  - 


=j ^ ^it— 


goddess     re  -  lent   -    ed,  And    slipp'd  in    three    blessings—  wife,    child  -  ren,  and    friends.      In 


^_^ZZ^=PV— ^—  ?=s=*= 


v«in,      sur-ly      Plu   -to    main  -  tained  he    was    cheat -ed;    For   jus   -    tice    dl  -  vine  could    not 


WIFE,    CHILDREN,   AND    FRIENDS. 

5^ 


:fe 


-  pass    its    ends;     The  scheme  of    man's   pen  -  ance,  he  swore,  was   de  -  feat-ed;      For 


m  - 


£ 


1 


m 


earth 


be    -     came          heav'n          with  wife,        chil 


dren, 


and 


friends. 


When  the  black-lettered  list  to  the  gods  was  pre- 
sented,— 

The  list  of  what  Fate  to  each  mortal  intends,  — 

At  the  long  string  of  ills,  a  kind  goddess  relented, 

And  slipped  in  three  blessings  :  wife,  children, 

and  friends. 

In  vain  surly  Pluto  maintained  he  was  cheated; 
For    justice    divine    could    not    compass    its 

ends ; 
The  scheme   of   Man's  penance,  he   swore,  was 

defeated, 

For  earth  became  heaven  with  wife,  children, 
and  friends. 

The  soldier,  whose  deeds  live  immortal  in  story, 

Whom  duty  to  far  distant  latitudes  sends, 
With    transport   would    barter    whole    ages    of 

glory, 
For  one    happy  day  with   wife,  children,  and 

friends. 
Though   valour   still  glows  in  his  life's  waning 

embers, 

The  death-wounded  tar  who  his  colors  defends 
Drops  a  tear  of  regret,  as  he,  dying,  remembers, 
How  blessed  was  his  home  with  wife,  children, 
and  friends. 


Though  spice-breathing  gales   o'er  his   caravan 

hover, — 
Though  round  him    Arabia's  whole  fragrance 

ascends, 
The  merchant  still  thinks  of  the  woodbines  that 

cover 
The  bower  where  he  sat  with  wife,  children, 

and  friends. 
The  day-spring  of  youth,  still  unclouded  by  sorrow, 

Alone  on  itself  for  enjoyment  depends  : 
But  drear  is  the  twilight  of  age,  if  it  borrow 
No  warmth  from  the  smiles  of  wife,  children, 
and  friends. 

Let  the  breath  of  renown  ever  freshen  and  nourish 

The  laurel  which  o'er  her  dead  favorite  bends; 

O'er  me  wave  the  willow,  and  long  may  it  flourish, 

Bedewed  with  the  tears  of  wife,  children,  and 

friends. 
Let  us  drink,  —  for  my  song,  growing  graver  and 

graver, 

To  subjects  too  solemn  insensibly  tends  ; 
Let  us  drink,  pledge  me  high,  —  love  and  virtue 

shall  flavor 

The  glass  which  I  fill   to  wife,  children,  and 
friends. 


62  OUK   FAMILIAR   SONGS. 

THE    WOODPECKER. 

THIS  ballad  was  written  by  THOMAS  MOORE,  during  his  travels  in  America,  MICHAKL 
KELLY,  who  composed  the  music,  was  the  son  of  a  wine-merchant,  in  Mary  street,  Dublin, 
who  was  for  many  years  master  of  ceremonies  at  the  vice-regal  castle.  Michael  was  born 
in  1762.  While  very  young,  he  showed  great  musical  capacity,  both  as  singer  and  player, 
and  his  father  procured  him  the  best  musical  advantages  within  his  reach.  It  happened 
that  the  very  best  were  embodied  in  the  person  of  an  Italian,  who  loved  the  merchant's 
wine  as  much  as  his  boy's  musical  talent;  and  Michael  relates,  that  many  a  night  he  was 
krpr  up  until  midnight  before  the  professor  was  in  a  condition  to  give  him  the  lessons  by 
which  he  profited  too  much  to  lose.  He  was  sent  to  Naples,  and  he  tells  in  his  "Reminis- 
cences," that  his  father  had  a  piano  made' for  him,  as  pianos  were  scarce  and  high,  espe- 
cially in  Italy.  The  journey  took  place  during  our  Revolution,  and  although  he  was  on 
board  a  neutral  vessel,  she  was  boarded  by  an  American  privateer.  He  says :  "  A  sturdy 
ruffian  began  to  break  open  my  piano-case  with  a  hatchet,  which,  when  I  saw,  I  manfully 
began  to  weep  and  cry  out,  'Oh !  my  dear  piano !'  The  cabin-boy,  who  was  about  my  own 
age,  called  out, '  For  God's  sake,  don't  cry,  Master  Kelly!'  The  chief  mate  of  the  privateer. 
who  was  quietly  perusing  some  of  our  captain's  papers,  on  hearing  these  words,  turned 
round,  and  looking  steadfastly  at  me,  said,  'Is  your  name  Kelly?'  I  answered  'yes.'  'Do 
you  know  anything  of  a  Mr.  Thomas  Kelly,  of  Mary  street,  Dublin?'  said  he.  'He  is  my 
father,'  was  my  reply.  The  young  man  immediately  started  up,  and,  with  tears  in  his 
eyes,  said, '  Don't  you  remember  me?  I  am  Jack  Cunningham,  who,  when  you  were  a  little 
boy,  nursed  you  and  played  with  you  ?' "  The  piano  was  spared,  but  his  Italian  master 
would  not  allow  him  to  use  it,  as  it  was  thought  to  spoil  the  voice.  Tears  afterward. 
Kelly  was  sitting  near  Lord  Nelson,  at  Lady  Hamilton's,  when  Lord  Nelson  said,  '-Mr. 
Kelly,  I  have  often  heard  your  old  master  speak  of  you  with  great  affection,  though  he  said 
you  were  as  wild  as  a  colt.  He  mentioned,  also,  your  having  given  him  your  piano-forte, 
which,  he  said,  nothing  should  induce  him  to  part  with." 

Sir  William  Hamilton,  the  British  Minister  at  Naples,  assisted  in  procuring  for  him  the 
best  musical  advantages,  and  as  a  tenor-singer,  Kelly  made  a  successful  tour  of  the  conti- 
nent. In  Vienna,  he  formed  a  close  intimacy  with  Mozart,  and  he  was  for  some  time  in  the 
service  of  the  Emperor  Joseph.  His  first  appearance  in  London  was  in  1787,  at  Drury  Lane, 
where  he  held  the  position  of  first  singer  and  musical  manager,  until  he  left  the  stage.  He 
began  the  composition  of  music  in  1797,  and  wrote  upwards  of  sixty  pieces,  most  of  which 
were  successful.  The  airs  in  Colman's  "Blubeard"  are  Kelly's.  His  "Reminiscences" 
appeared  a  few  months  before  his  death,  which  took  place  in  1826.  They  were  written  by 
Theodore  Hook,  from  Kelly's  rough  material. 


/ 


I     knew    by    the  smoke  that    BO   grace  -  f  ul  -  ly  curl'd       A-bove    the  green  elms,  that    a 


THE    WOODPECKER. 


cot  -  tage  was  near,     And    I       said     "  if  there's  peace    to      be     found      in     the  world,     A 


heart      that  was  hum-ble      might  hope    for     it      here,     The  heart    that  washum-ble      might 


hope    for     it    here!"  Ev-'ry    leaf    was     at    rest,      and     I    heard     not     a    sound,  But   the 


wood  -  peck- er     tap-ping       the    hoi -low   beech  tree,      Ev-'ry    leaf    was    at     rest,     and     I 


-N \ 


tempo. 


-- 


g  g  r 

v 


3=£ 


r 

heard      not     a  sound,     Ev  -  'ry   leaf    was     at    rest,    and    I   heard     not     a   sound, 

"^ —  /TV 

4^ 


But   the 


or/;  f.t  w/./.i/.1  MAV/.V 


.*, 


w  .....  |-,Mck-er    tap-ping      the    hoi-low    beech     tree,    But  the  wood  -peck-  er    tap-ping        the 


hollow  beech  tree,  The  woodpecker  tapping  the  hoi-low  beech  tree 


"  And  here      in    this    lone      lit  -  tie  wood,"   I    exclaim'd,"With  a   maid   who  was  love  -  ly      to 


rftt  at^  TSj 


-t 


n 


soul    and    to    eye,     Who  would  blush  when  I  prais'd    her,  and   weep       if       I  blam'd,  How 


y   l     s. 


ad  lib. 


m 


bleat     could    I    live,      and  how  calm    could    I      diel    How   blest     could    I     live,      and  how 
F  ^^  ^~       -*-+- 


THE    WOODPECKER. 


55 


calm  could  I      die.       Ev-'ry    leaf    was     at    rest,      and     I   heard     not     a    sound,  But   the 


g      g 


tempo. 


v  y ^  y         y  y v   l     v        y ^—       — BL__KJ z ~         ~ 

tJ       wood  -  peck- er     tap-ping       the    hoi- low   beech  tree;      Ev-'ry    leaf     was    at    rest,     and     I 


heard      not     a  sound,     Ev  -  'ry   leaf    was     at    rest,    and    I   heard     not     a   sound,   But   the 


wood-peck-er    tap-ping      the    hoi-low   beech    tree,    But  the  wood -peck- er    tap-ping       the 


hollow  beech  tree,  The  woodpecker  tapping  the  hollow  beech  tree. 


( Opening  ofM  Stanza :) 

It  was  noon,  and  on  flowers  that  languished  around, 
In  silence  reposed  the  voluptuous  pee ; 
Every  leaf,  &c. 


(Last  Stanza :) 
By  the  shade  of  yon  sumach,  whose  red  berry  dips 

In  the  gush  of  the  fountain,  how  sweet  to  recline, 
And  to  know  that  I  sighed  upon  innocent  lips, 

Which  had  never  been  sighed  on  by  any  but  mine. 


on;    FAMILIAR   SONGS. 
On 

RAIN    ON    THE    ROOF. 

COATES  KINNEY,  author  of  "Rain  on  the  Roof,"  was  bora  in  Y^tes  County,  N.  Y, 
November  24  1826.  He  obtained  a  liberal  education,  and  has  been  a  teacher,  an  editor,  and 
a  lawyer.  During  the  war,  he  was  a  paymaster  in  the  national  army,  and  at  its  close  he 
lefl  the  service  with  the  brevet  of  lieutenant-colonel.  He  was  editor  and  proprietor  of  the 
Xmisi,  0.,  Torch  1  i <i lit,  in  1865-7,  and  editor-in-chief  of  the  Cincinnati  Times  in  1868,  and  is 
mm-  practicing  law  in  Xenia.  He  has  published  a  small  volume  of  poems. 

Mr.  Kinury  givrs  this  arroiint  of  the  origin  of  the  song:  "The  verses  were  written 
when  1  was  about  twenty  years  of  agr,  as  nearly  as  I  can  remember.  They  were  inspired 
close  to  the  rafters  of  a  little  stoiy-and-a-half  frame  house.  The  language,  as  first  pub- 
lished, was  not  composed, — it  came.  I  had  just  a  little  more  to  do  with  it  than  I  had  with 
the  coming  of  the  rain.  The  poem,  in  its  entirety,  came  and  asked  me  to  put  it  down, 
the  next  afternoon,  in  the  course  of  a  solitary  and  aimless  squandering  of  a  young  man's 
precious  time  along  a  no-whither  road  through  a  summer  wood.  Every  word  of  it  is  a 
fact,  and  was  a  tremendous  heart-throb." 

The  verses  were  sent  to  Emerson  Bennett,  at  that  time  editor  of  The  Columbian,  a, 
Cincinnati,  who  threw  them  aside,  as  not  being  quite  up  to  the  Columbian's  standard ! 
A  few  days  later,  the  publisher  of  the  paper,  Mr.  Penrose  Jones,  rummaging  in  the  drawers 
of  rejected  manuscripts,  came  across  Mr.  Kinney's,  and,  holding  it  up,  wanted  to  know 
"  What  the  dickens  do  you  mean,  Mr.  Bennett,  by  putting  this  in  here?"  The  next  day  it 
went  into  print  in  the  Columbian,  and  immediately  afterward,  to  the  surprise  and  disgust 
of  Mr.  Bennett,  it  went  all  over  the  world.  These  words  have  been  set  to  music  by 
various  composers.  We  give  here  the  version  of  JAMES  G.  CLARK. 


1.  When  the      hu  -  mid     sha-dows   ho- ver    O    -    ver    all      the  star  -    ry    spheres,     And  the 

HP 


spheres,     And  the 


mel    -  an    -   cho    -   ly    dark  -  ness  Gent  -    ly    weeps         in    rain    -     y       tears,      What       a 


--H^a 


m 


q 


BAIN  ON    THE   ROOF. 


ad  lib. 


s2i|2=:?: 


lis    -    ten       to         the         pat    -    ter       Of         the    soft      rain         o 


ver-head ! 


colla  voce. 


-\ ~ TJ~ 

:£^SE 


CHORUS, 


Hear          it        pat  -  ter,  tin  -  kle,  mur    -    mur,  as 


Hear          it        pat  -  ter,  pat  -  ter,      tin -kle,  tin- kle,      mur    -    mur,  as 


— ^~ ^-—r — &—— t t—Vj '^j—^J— -^r— -*i—  t — 'j : h— hr-— 

— >  y — j- — v — > — > — ^ ^ — v — ^ — 1»< — j- — ^-          ix  ^ — 


Hear          it        pat  -  ter,  pat  -  ter,      tin -kle,  tin -kle,      mur    -    mur,  as  it 

/T\ 

8va r 

SitjElE  ^~£=^»==£^==t^=^=|=£=*=     =1—     ==;=t=,;= 

' ~— * '"         '     J  L          T .  __  !!•      '  I         I   N         II          '  J 


m 


falls  up  -  on  the        roof, 


Hear      it       pat  -ter, 


Or 
_  i  ' 


tin  -  kle, 

— N >S N >S—. 


falls  up  -  on  the       roof, 


Hear      it       pat  -ter,  pat  -ter,     tin  -kle,  tin  -  kle, 


falls  up  -  on  the       roof,  Hear      it       pat -ter,  pat -ter,     tin -kle,  tin -kle. 


'    .f"^        S~f  f       ?       -f  '* "  $  F^ 
3 — •> nutzS us Bt3ij5 


-S — v 


<??yfl r.v 

— ;  .  •—? — *  .  *  • 


OUR   FAMILIAR    SONGS. 


rjbJi^ 

t 

_T_J  

-- 

_j        4_] 

—p- 

•-f 

~T<~ 

-?hr  '3 

"Hi 

P*E£= 

-g     g     •'- 

=lz*-z: 

0   - 

»-•    •  *-\ 

^ 

—  J- 

-*-T- 

*5E                1 

:HJ 

mur  -  mur,      as 


falls. 


up-oa        the  roof. 


JL  U   1                                            «  

-2  

—  t  fe^      -fa- 

t-fl 

Br  ^  ^  «^  *•  5  — 

.  .           up-on        the  roof.  • 

,__M 

...    /^ 

^t>  —  «  is  p——g— 



-p  —  -f-h  —  -fs-*— 

i  J   i> 

-*•  

-J-:  J     *    .  •  
.--                                          -#- 

When  the  humid  shadows  hover 

Over  all  the  starry  spheres 
And  the  melancholy  darkness 

Gently  weeps  in  rainy  tears, 
What  a  bliss  to  press  the  pillow 

Of  a  cottage-chamber  bed 
And  to  listen  to  the  patter 

Of  the  soft  rain  overhead  ! 

Every  tinkle  on  the  shingles 

Has  an  echo  in  the  heart ; 
And  a  thousand  dreamy  fancies 

Into  busy  being  start, 
And  a  thousand  recollections 

Weave  their  air-threads  into  woof, 
As  I  listen  to  the  patter 

Of  the  rain  upon  the  roof. 

Now  in  memory  comes  my  mother, 

As  she  used,  long  years  agone, 
To  regard  the  darling  dreamers 

Ere  she  left  them  till  the  dawn  : 
O  !  I  see  her  leaning  o'er  me, 

As  I  list  to  this  refrain 
Which  is  played  upon  the  shingles 

By  the  patter  of  the  rain. 


Then  my  little  seraph  sister, 

With  her  wings  and  waving  hair, 
And  her  star-eyed  cherub  brother  — 

A  serene  angelic  pair !  — 
Glide  around  my  wakeful  pillow, 

With  their  praise  or  mild  reproof, 
As  I  listen  to  the  murmur 

Of  the  soft  rain  on  the  roof. 

And  another  comes,  to  thrill  me 

With  her  eyes'  delicious  blue; 
And  I  mind  not,  musing  on  her, 

That  her  heart  was  all  untrue: 
I  remember  but  to  love  her 

With  a  passion  kin  to  pain, 
And  my  heart's  quick  pulses  vibrate 

To  the  patter  of  the  rain. 

Art  hath  naught  of  tone  or  cadence 

That  can  work  with  such  a  spell 
In  the  soul's  mysterious  fountains, 

Whence  the  tears  of  rapture  well, 
As  that  melody  of  Nature, 

That  subdued,  subduing  strain 
Which  is  played  upon  the  shingles 

By  the  patter  of  the  rain. 


THE  BO  AT  IE   BOWS.  49 

THE    BOATIE    ROWS. 

BURNS  says  the  author  of  the  words  of  this  song  was  Joiix  EWEN,  who  was  born  at 
Montrose,  Scotland,  in  1741,  and  died  at  Aberdeen,  which  had  been  his  home  for  many 
years,  October  21,  1821.  The  air.  has  had  many  variations,  but  the  one  in  present  use  is 
the  original. 


1.  O         weel      may       the  boat  -  ie       row,  And      bet-ter       may       she    speed; 


i=i 


<3 


5  •'  2 


weel       may       the  boat  -ie    row,  That  wins   the     bairns'  bread.  The    boat-ie    rows,  the 


3T3    ;  IJ 


33*3 


boat-ie  rows, The    boat   -   ie  rows  f u'      weel;          And  muckle     luck    at  -  tend    the  boat,  The 


9     \9     \9        J- 


J     |J  J     !J 


=£T3= 


TT3: 


3^3 


^ 


OUS   FAMILIAR    HONGS. 
8 


* =*- 


niiir  -  Ian  and     the  creel 


m. 


I  cuist  my  line  in  Largo  Bay, 

And  fishes  I  caught  nine  ; 
They're  three  to  roast,  and  three  to  boil, 

And  three  to  bait  the  line. 
The  boatie  rows,  the  boatie  rows, 

The  boatie  rows  indeed; 
And  happy  be  the  lot  of  a' 

That  wish  the  boatie  speed. 

O  weel  may  the  boatie  row 

That  fills  a  heavy  creel, 
And  cleads  us  a'  frae  head  to  feet, 

And  buys  our  parritch  meal. 
The  boatie  rows,  the  boatie  rows, 

The  boatie  rows  indeed  ; 
And  happy  be  the  lot  of  a' 

That  wish  the  boatie  speed. 

When  Jamie  vowed  he  wad  be  mine, 

And  wan  frae  me  my  heart 
O  muckle  lighter  grew  my  creel ! 

He  swore  we'd  never  part. 
The  boatie  rows,  the  boatie  rows, 

The  boatie  rows  fu'  weel ; 
And  muckle  lighter  is  the  lade 

When  love  bears  up  the  creel. 


My  kurtch  I  put  upon  my  head, 

And  dressed  myseP  fu'  braw, 
I  trow  my  heart  was  dowf  and  wae 

When  Jamie  gaed  awa'. 
But  weel  may  the  boatie  row, 

And  lucky  be  her  part ; 
And  lightsome  be  the  lassie's  care 

That  yields  an  honest  heart. 

When  Sawnie,  Jock,  and  Janette 

Are  up,  and  gotten  lear, 
They'll  help  to  gar  the  boatie  row, 

And  lighten  a'  our  care. 
The  boatie  rows,  the  boatie  rows, 

The  boatie  rows  fu'  weel ; 
And  lightsome  be  the  heart  that  bears 

The  murlan  and  the  creel. 

When  we  are  auld  and  sair  bowed  down,, 

And  kirplin  at  the  door, 
They'll  row  to  keep  us  dry  and  warm, 

As  we  did  them  before  : 
Then  weel  may  the  boatie  row 

That  wins  the  bairn's  breed, 
And  happy  be  the  lot  of  a' 

That  wish  the  boatie  speed. 


O  SWIFTLY  GLIDES  THE  BONNIE  BOAT! 

JOANNA  BAILLIE,  author  of  the  words  of  the  following  song,  was  born  in  BothwelL 
Lanarkshire,  Scotland,  September  11,  1762.    She  spent  her  early  years  on  the  romantic 
the  Clyde,  and  was  noted  in  the  country-side  for  her  activity  and  courage  in  out- 
One  day,  she  and  her  brother  were  riding  double  on  a  horse,  when  the  animal 
the  brother,  but  oould  not  unseat  the  sister,  and  a  farmer  in  amazement 
claimed,  "Look  at  Miss  Jack !    She  sits  her  horse  as  if  it  were  a  bit  of  herself."    Sh«  was 
nee  telling  Lucy  Aikin  that  at  nine  she  could  not  read  plainly,  when  her  sister  checked 
er,  an.1  mid,  "At  nine?    Joanna,  you  could  not  read  well  at  eleven."    Joanna  was  sent 


O  SWIFTLY  GLIDES  THE  BONNIE  BOAT! 


61 


to  boarding-school,  and  there  became  famous  as  a  story-teller.  Her  tales  would  draw 
alternate  tears  and  laughter  from  the  schoolgirls.  She  also  established  a  kind  of  private 
theatricals,  in  which  she  was  playwright,  costumer,  scene-shifter,  and  principal  actor. 
When  she  was  about  fifteen,  her  father  became  Professor  of  Divinity  in  Glasgow  Univer- 
sity. After  his  death,  Dr.  William  Hunter,  a  bachelor  uncle,  settled  the  family  upon  a 
small  estate  in  Lanarkshire.  Here  Joanna  learned  the  writings  of  the  British  dramatists, 
especially  Shakespeare,  almost  by  heart,  although  she  was  not  a  wide  reader,  and  here  she 
wrote  some  Scottish  songs,  and  adapted  them  to  old  melodies.  The  death  of  the  uncle 
caused  the  family  to  remove  to  London,  where  Joanna's  brother  was  a  physician  of  distinc- 
tion. There,  in  1790,  she  published  a  volume  of  miscellaneous  poems,  which  was  not  suc- 
cessful. Soon  after,  the  conception  of  her  first  drama  flashed  into  her  mind,  and  with  it 
the  belief  that  she  had  found  her  true  mode  of  expression.  Her  plays  found  favor  slowly ; 
and  finally  one  of  them,  "  J)e  Montfort,"  was  acted  at  Drury  Lane,  by  John  Kemble  and  Mrs. 
Siddous,  but  their  genius  could  not  supply  the  lack  of  incident.  She  afterward  wrote  a 
tragedy,  entitled  "  A  Family  Legend,"  which  was  acted  in  Edinburgh,  with  a  prologue  by 
Scott,  an  epilogue  by  Mackenzie,  and  Mrs.  Siddons  and  Terry  in  the  cast.  It  was  favorably 
received  through  ten  performances,  and  Sir  Walter,  writing  to  Miss  Baillie  about  it,  said : 
"  You  have  only  to  imagine  all  you  could  wish,  to  give  success  to  a  play,  and  your  concep- 
tions will  still  fall  short  of  the  complete  and  decided  triumph  of  the  '  Family  Legend.' 
The  house  was  crowded  to  a  most  extraordinary  degree;  many  people  had  come  from  your 
native  capital  of  the  west ;  everything  that  pretended  to  distinction,  whether  from  rank  or 
literature,  was  in  the  boxes ;  and  in  the  pit,  such  an  aggregate  mass  of  humanity  as  I  have 
seldom,  if  ever,  witnessed  in  the  same  space."  But  Miss  Baillie's  plays,  although  pleasant 
dramatic  poems,  had  not  incident  and  action  enough  to  keep  the  stage.  Each  play  deline- 
ated a  single  passion  of  the  human  soul. 

She  is  described  as  a  woman  who  would  have  been  attractive  even  if  she  had  had 
no  reputation.  She  was  religious  and  benevolent,  and  all  the  nobler  virtues  shone  forth 
through  an  intelligent  and  pleasant  face.  Most  of  her  songs  occur  in  her  plays.  She  lived 
quietly  in  Hempstead,  for  many  years  after  all  her  friends  were  gone.  In  one  of  her  later 
letters,  she  writes :  "  For  me,  the  walking  through  our  churchyard  is  no  unpleasant  thing ; 
it  cannot  extinguish  the  lights  beaming  from  the  promised  house  in  which  are  many  rnan- 
.sions."  She  died,  February  23,  1851. 

The  words  of  Miss  Baillie's  song,  "  0  swiftly  glides  the  bonnie  boat,"  were  probably 
adapted  to  the  old  Scottish  melody  by  the  author  herself. 


Allegretto  Siciliano. 


1.  0      swift  -  ly    glides      the     bon  -  nie     boat,    Just         part  -  ed    from    the  shore,    And 

2.  The    mer  -  maid    on         her    rock    may    sing,    The        witch  may   wave  her  charm ;  Nor 


i~~~~~     .       ~fr        ^^^T 
-  •*« — J-^^~ '  =5=     "~f« ^ — •* 


3.  Now  safe      ar- rived      on      shore,  we    meet      Our    friends  with   hap  -  py  cheer;     And 


-?  —  3  —  .  —  *;  —  »J 


crN=rfe: 


or/,1    r.\Ml/.IAR    SONGS. 


mf 


to      the      fish-    ers'       cho  -  rus    note,      Soft       moves      the      dip    -ping      oar;  These 

\va  -  ter  -  sprite     nor        el  -  drich  thing     The          bon    -   nie      boat      can      harm.  It 


*E^^f^£E£E£  EiEE^EE  =jEE$=  E$E^= 

*          • 9          9  -*•  •*• 

nth    the     fish  -  ers'        cho  -  rus   greet      All  those       we      hold    most    dear;  With 


f  • 

f 

i=r 

3    IE 

—  H- 

=| 

B 

£ 

^=F 

—  i^— 

—  *  — 

—  i-v  — 

__yl  ^  

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~ N-T 


^ 


toils       are     borne    with      hap    -  py       cheer,    And       ev    -    er    may      they  speed ;  That 

safe  -    ly       bears       its       sea    -    ly       store    Thro'     many     a    storm  -  y        g:ile ;  While 


^~E^E=E=EE=E=I~Z~Z^z-^R=E^E 


hap  -    py       cheer     the       echo  -  ing      cove       Re    -    peats    the  chant  -  ed      note ;  As 

J~          ~fr  ~fr  "*~T        fr  "t>      r>~~    T^^i     m  "  ~N 


F*- 

_€. 


* — r ^ —  — ^ —  — R~"i  — 

E£;E3E3EE£|3EaEE3E 


fee    -  ble       age       and        help    -  mate  dear,     And      ten    -  der    hair  -  nies    feed.  We 

joy    -  ful      shouts    rise       from       the    shore,     Its      home  -  ward  prow    to      hail.  We 


1 


home-ward       to        our          cot         we  move,      Our      bon  -    nie,   bon  -  nie    boat.  We 

>     .£ K_  _!_ .        _1_ 


.-•  =2: 


— f—  :r-f-± » — •—  — »^f^ 

=J= 


cast        our  lines       in       Lar    -    go    Bay,    Our     nets      are       float -ing  wide; 


Our 


our  lines       in       Lar    -    go   Bay,    Our    nets       are        float  -  ing 


-*» K 


-*-7 


$-1  -*_• — y    »_  njfziiri<z=  z^—         ~: fr ]— 

^EJ=^^=iE     ^ 


O  H  WIFTLY  GLIDES  THE  BONNIE  BOAT. 


bon    -    nie   boat,    with     yield  -  ing  sway,    rocks  light -ly       on      the         tide; 


And 


bon    -    nie   boat,    with    yield  -  ing    sway,    rocks         light  -  ly         on      the         tide; 


And 


5b=£=£pi±          =6= 


f •— — r r— T — I zfciq 

&=*=*E^  EEEJEJ 


»_q — 0-± f 0 0 — i: 

-pgE==tj=ztz 1^4: 

r — I — ^ ^ ^ ^ .L_ 


P 


hap    -  py      prove     our       dai    -    ly        lot,       Up  -  on          the    sum    •  mer    sea, 


And 


hap    -   py      prove     our       dai    -   ly 

:*=*=^J=£ 

3( 


the    sum    -  mer    sea, 
-s        I 


And 

.S 


O  swiftly  glides  the  bonnie  boat, 

Just  parted  from  the  shore, 
And  to  the  fishers'  chorus-note, 

Soft  moves  the  dipping  oar : 
These  toils  are  borne  with  happy  cheer, 

And  ever  may  they  speed  ! 
That  feeble  age  and  helpmate  dear, 

And  tender  bairnies  feed. 

The  mermaid  on  her  rock  may  sing, 

The  witch  may  wave  her  charm ;  — 
Nor  water-sprite,  nor  eldrich  thing 

The  bonnie  boat  can  harm. 
It  safely  bears  its  scaly  store 

Through  many  a  stormy  gale  ; 
While  joyful  shouts  rise  from  the  shore, 

Its  homeward  prow  to  hail 


Now,  safe  arrived  on  shore,  we  meet 

Our  friends  with  happy  cheer ; 
And  with  the  fishers'  chorus  greet 

All  those  we  hold  most  dear ; 
With  happy  cheer  the  echoing  cove 

Repeats  the  chanted  note  ; 
As  homeward  to  our  cot  we  move 

Our  bonnie,  bonnie  boat. 

Cho  — We  cast  our  lines  in  Largo  Bay, 

Our  nets  are  floating  wide ; 
Our  bonnie  boat,  with  yielding  sway, 

Rocks  lightly  on  the  tide  ; 
And  happy  prove  our  daily  lot, 

Upon  the  summer  sea, 
And  blest  on  land  our  kindly  cot, 

Where  all  our  treasures  be. 


FAMILIAR    oOJV6^. 
•>* 

MY  OLD  KENTUCKY   HOME. 

THIS  song  is  the  twentieth  of  STEPHEN  C.  FOSTER'S  "Plantation  Melodies."  1  do  not 
know  that  it  is  true,  but  I  cannot  help  feeling  that  it  was  the  intrinsic  beauty  and  merit  of 
these  songs  that  lifted  the  Christy  Minstrels  from  the  low  position  usually  occupied  by  such 
troupes  to  something  like  that  of  a  respectable  concert-room,  both  in  this  country  and  in 
England.  Foster  caught  his  idea  of  writing  his,  so-called,  negro  melodies  from  listening  to 
the  absurdities  then  in  vogue  with  the  burnt-cork  gentry.  He  walked  home  from  one  of 
their  concerts  in  Baltimore,  with  the  banjo  strains  ringing  in  his  ears,  and  before  he  slept 
he  had  composed  the  ridiculous  words  and  taking  air  called  "Camptown  Races,"  with  its 
chorus  of  "  Du-da,  du-da,  da."  He  passed  from  one  finer  tone  to  another,  until  he  reached 
the  perfection  of  simple  pathos  in  "  Old  Folks  at  Home,"  "  Massu's  in  the  cold,  cold 
ground,"  "  0,  Boys,  carry  me  'long,"  and  "  My  Old  Kentucky  Home."  The  music  is  his 
own. 

By  special  permission  of  William  A.  Pond  &  Co. 


Poco  Adagio. 


The  sun  shines  bright  in    the  old    Kentuck  -  y  home, 

igi 

"^~I~ —   .  ^  ZL  ^ 


>Tis  summer, 


darkies       are 


-t 


& 


:?(v   , 


•tf>T- 


gay; 


The  corn  top's  ripe     and  the  meadow's  in    the  bloom,  While  the  birds  make  music  all   the 


-  —  Rl  — 
'    '    ' 

3  —  •  —  i  —  i~ 

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da.v-                                The   young      folks    roll        on   the       lit  -  tie      cab  -  in       floor,         All 

^Li=HH-r^=^ 

E±=S^ 

*"•  *•  —  <5^i  •  _ 

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MY   OLD   KENTUCKY    HOME. 


**— ^_ *-^g=«=:  E$EE5=f=3=^Ei=E          ES  E3E  =J=.  ==F=T:::3? 

F-+;— *~£1-=3-        =3^— M-    -- 3— g—        ^     —3-4-*= 


knocking  at      the    door,  Then,  my        old  Kentuck  -  y  home, 

— *  — 0 *  — — •         ~^i  S— 

« ^ L j 


good    night ! 


-i- 


zzzf: 

-27- 


~ j 


Wee.p     no     more,    my       la  -  dy, 
i     »_. •*•  '      •*•        - 


P 
Oh!  weep      no     more      to    -  day! 


We  will 

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sing    one    song    for   the  old  Kentuck-y    home,  For  the  old  Kentuck -y  home,  far      a-w.ay. 


/^N 

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'S     9    y     v  > 

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2d.  Verse. 


E,=ig=^=^pgSE^=p^^^g3^i^£ 

They  hunt    no    more    for   the  possum   and  the  coon,    On   the  meadow,     the   hill,      and  the 


dfct 


shore,         They  sing    no    more     by    the  glimmer   of      the  moon,  On  the  bench  by    the  old  cab  -  in 

"S-T 1 1 ; S S-r- -__« »_-=       =-g--j 


dooi . 


The      day      goes       by       like     a        sha  -  dow    o'er       the  heart,        With 


t>6 


OUR  FAMILIAR  A'O.\V,',s 


sor  -    row       where  all  was     de  -    light; 

^N 


The    time      has      come      when  the 


— i i »— 

^~        *       ~*         * 

_V ^ * —  — ' * — 

dar-kieshave    to    part,    Then   my        old  Kentuck  -  y    home,       good -night!  CHORUS. 

3d.  Verse. 


The  head  must    bow    and  the  back  will  have  to    bend,       Wherev  -  er         the  dark-ey        may 


go;  A  few  more   days,  and   the  trouble    all    will  end      In   the  field  where  the  BU  -  gar-canes 


mat-ter,         'twill   \v  s  -    r  be      light, 


A       few      more    days      till      we 


tot-ter    on      the  road,    Then,  my       old  Kentuck-  y  home,       good    night! 


CHORUS. 


TAK'  YER  AULD  CLOAK  ABOUT  YE. 

THIS  song,  in  its  present  form,  was  first  printed  in  Allan  Ramsay's  "  Tea-Table  Miscel- 
lany," in  1724,  but  its  origin  cannot  bs  settled  beyond  a  doubt.  It  is  greatly  in  favor  of  a 
Scottish  paternity  that  Bishop  Percy  admits  such  a  probability,  although  he  inserts  in  his 
"Reliques  of  Ancient  Poetry"  an  extra  stanzt  found  by  him  in  a  copy  of  the  song  written 
in  old  English.  This  stanza,  the  second  in  the  version  following,  introduces  the  dialogue 
which  forms  the  peculiarity  and  the  spiciness  of  thb  poem.  The  song  was  known  in  Eng- 
land in  Shakespeare's  time.  lago,  in  the  drinking  scene-  in  the  second  act  of  "  Othello," 
delights  the  company  with — 

"  King  Stephen  was  a  worthy  peer, 

HIM  breeches  cost  him  but  a  crown, 
He  held  them  sixpence  all  too  dear; 

With  that  he  called  the  tailor  clown. 
He  was  a  wight  of  high  renown, 

And  thou  art  but  of  low  degree ; 
TU  pride  that,  mills  the  country  down, 

Then  take  thine  auia  woak  about  thee." 

The  air  is  known  to  be  much  older  than  the  words,— indeed,  it  is  conced  /  a  great 
antiquity. 


Marcato. 


TAK'  YEE  AULD  CLOAK  ABOUT  YE. 
Quasi  Recit. 


67 


E^E 
:i 


--M-. 


In       win  -  ter,  when      the       rain    raiu'd  cauld,          And 


si_u_i  =^=:f  :=:       2_*_i:  p5__,_:    _A_  :_s 

^=£^=t::=:  -*L=sit3z7=: 

E J0.V 1 L_€ f — II 1 — ^ 


frost  and  snaw    on     il  -kahili,         And    Boreas,  with   his    blast  sae  bauld,  "Was  threat'nin' a'     our 


EfeE  ^ 


N ^-4- V — I S-f S — I S-T H--;    •    — -T 7— a — » H — =- 

- — :S— | ^— p^-T-1^— I ^~I~^~ ^      -  -        '^~'  ~>'~ 0^*~f~ *~f"f        *~ ^       ~ 


kye    to  kill,  Then,  Bell,  my  wife,  wha    lo'es  nae  strife,  She    said    tome,  right    has  -  ti  -  ly,       "Get 


EIE 


— — = 


up,  guidman,  save  Crummie's  life,  And  tak'  your  auld  cloak  a  -  bout  ye." 

Ej=E^s^^aggE£=*    _\S*  I  f] 
-%—  =t:±Ss-i===  {^^-^ 


t 


-r*1 — i — B~F-i — ^*-T- 

•S^^ZE^iS* 


In  winter,  when  the  rain  rained  cauld, 

And  frost  and  snaw  on  ilka  hill, 
And  Boreas,  with  his  blast  sae  bauld, 

Was  threat'nin'  a'  our  kye  to  kill, 
Then  Bell,  my  wife,  wha  lo'es  nae  strife, 

She  said  to  me,  right  hastily, 
"  Get  up,  guidman,  save  Crummie's  life, 

And  tak'  your  auld  cloak  about  ye." 


"O  Bell,  why  dost  thou  flyte  and  scorne? 

Thou  kenst  my  cloak  is  very  thin; 
It  is  so  bare  and  overworne, 

A  cricke  he  thereon  cannot  renn. 
Then  I'll  no  longer  borrow  or  lend  — 

For  once  I'll  new-apparelled  be; 
To-morrow  I'll  to  town,  and  spend, 

For  I'll  have  a  new  cloake  about  me. 


OUR  FAMILIAR  X 


"My  Crummie  is  a  usefu'  cow, 

And  has  come  of  a  good  kin' ; 
Aft  has  she  wet  the  bairns'  mou', 

And  I  am  laith  that  she  should  tyne. 
Get  up,  guidman,  it  is  fu'  time, 

The  sun  shines  in  the  lift  sae  hie ; 
Sloth  never  made  a  gracious  end, 

Gae  tak'  your  auld  cloak  about  ye." 

"  My  cloak  was  ance  a  guid  grey  cloak, 

When  it  was  fitting  for  my  wear; 
But  now  it's  scantly  worth  a  groat, 

For  I  hae  worn't  this  thretty  year. 
Let's  spend  the  gear  that  we  hae  won, 

We  little  ken  the  day  we'll  dee ; 
Then  I'll  be  proud,  for  I  hae  sworn 

To  hae  a  new  cloak  about  me." 

"  In  days  when  guid  King  Robert  ran, 

His  trews  they  cost  but  half-a-crown  ; 
He  said  they  were  a  groat  owre  dear, 

And  ca'd  the  tailor  thief  an'  loon. 
He  was  the  King  that  wore  the  crown, 

And  thou'rt  a  man  o'  low  degree  ; 
'Tis  pride  puts  a'  the  country  doun, 

Sae  tak'  your  auld  cloak  about  ye." 


"  Ilka  land  has  its  ain  laucli.  [law] 

Ilk  kind  o'  corn  has  its  ain  hool; 
I  think  the  warld  is  a'  gane  wrang, 

When  ilka  wife  her  man  wad  rule. 
Do  ye  no  see  Rob,  Jock,  and  Hab, 

How  they  are  girded  gallantlie, 
While  I  sit  hurklin  in  the  asse? 

I'll  hae  a  new  cloak  about  me." 

"  Guidman,  I  wat  it's  thretty  year, 

Sin'  we  did  ane  anither  ken; 
And  we  hae  had  atween  us  twa, 

O'  lads  and  bonnie  lasses  ten. 
Now  they  are  women  grown  and  men, 

I  wish  and  pray  weel  may  they  be ; 
And  if  ye  prove  a  guid  husband, 

E'n  tak'  your  auld  cloak  about  ye." 

"  Bell,  my  wife,  she  lo'es  nae  strife, 

But  she  wad  guide  me,  if  she  can ; 
And  to  maintain  an  easy  life 

I  aft  maun  yield,  tho'  I'm  guidman. 
Nought's  to  be  gain'd  at  women's  han' 

Unless  ye  gie  them  a'  the  plea; 
Then  I'll  leave  aff  where  I  began, 

And  tak'  my  auld  cloak  about  me." 


DO  THEY  MISS  ME  AT  HOME? 
FOE  the  music  of  this  pleasant  little  song  we  are  indebted  to  MR.  S.  M.  GRANNTS. 


Dolce  Legato. 


3  EgEjE 

._  «-_—  «_«,—  —  0— 


1.  Do  they  miss   me  at    home,      Do  they  miss       me? 

2.  When  twi  -  light  approach    -     es,  the   sea  -    son 

3.  Do  thoy  sot     me  a     chair       near  the    ta  -     ble, 

4.  Do  they  miss   me  at    home,      Do  they  miss        me 


Twoukl    be        an  as  -  sur  -  ance  most 

That     ev  -    er    is     sa  -  cred  to 

When  eve-ning's  home  pleasures  an- 

At       morning,  at    noon    or  at 


dear, 
song, 
nigh, 
nigh? 


To  know  that  this  moment  some  lov'd  one 
Does  some  one  re  -  peat  my  name  ov  -  er, 
When  the  can  -  dies  are  lit  in  the  par  -  lor, 

And      lin-gers     one   gloomy  shade  round  them 


Were  say  -  ing,"I   wish  he  were 

And  sigh   that  I     tar-  ry    so 

And  the    stars  in  the  calm,  azure 

That  on  -    ly    my  presence  can 


DO   THEY  MISS  ME  AT  HOME? 


69 


eel    that  the  group 
is    there  a    chord  i 


here ;" 

long?  And      is    there  a    chord  in    the       mu 

sky  ?  And  when  the  "good  nights"  are  re  -  peat 

light?  Arc     joys    less  in-  vit-iug-ly        wel 


-  side      Were  think -ing  of    me    as       I 

sic,  That,  missed  when  my  voice  is      a  - 
ed,      And     all    lay  them  down  to  their 

-  come,    And    pleasures  less  hale  than  be  - 


•*••*•  •*• 


=^=-g=p^==g=^ 


Oh,       yes,     'twould  be        joy          be  -  yond  meas-ure 

And  a  chord        in     each  heart  that       a    -  wak  -  eth 

Do  they  think         of       the        ab    -  sent,    and  wnft       me 

Be   -  cause       one       is  missed  from    the  cir    -   cle, 


To 
Re  - 
A 
Be  - 


H^^-i— -  :_      : 

— »—  —1—  - 

i 


d=;    ^:Ei± 
=*= 


flrtf  libitum. 


know   that    they  miss     me    at       home, 

-  gret      at      my     wea  -   ri  -  some    stay  ? 
whis  -per'd  "good  night"  while  they  weep? 

-  cause     I        am    with  them  no       more? 


To  know  that  they  miss  me  at  home, 
lie  -  gret  at  my  wea  -  ri  -  some  stay  ? 
A  whisper'd  "good  night,"  while  they  weep? 
Be  -  cause  I  am  with  them  no  more? 


± _*_• f T-*— 


OLD  FOLKS  AT  HOME. 

FOE  its  age,  this  is  one  of  the  best  known  songs  in  the  world.  Four  hundred  thousand 
copies  of  it  were  sold,  and  E.  P.  Christy,  of  minstrel  fame,  paid  four  hundred  dollars  for 
the  privilege  of  having  his  name  printed  upon  a  single  edition  as  its  author  and  composer. 
The  true  author  and  composer  was  STEPHEN  COLLINS  FOSTER. 

Moderato.  By  special  permission  of  Messrs.  OLIVER  DITSON  &  Co. 


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is  stay. 

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kh  *  J     -f  h  J  H  i  -f  r  Ff-^  "7"..  ^  j  -^    ft[ 

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*  —  —j  —      0  '     ^  ^  —  •  9—T  —  O-*  —  ^  —  j  
Still         long-  ing    for    de     old  plan  -  ta  -  tion,  And    for      de     old    folks      at  home. 

1J    •*                                               _i                                 i                                                                                                                      i 

i           ii 

fff\  $    X                          -I          •"  X-     'X     j      X                       X 

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CHORUS. 

i   QS     [i  —  2  '  —  1  ^  1  i  —  r-  f                        1  —  (—  |  1  —  j 

(3>  *                       *  —  *^  —  -  —  ^  —                      • 

e>    '               *  '. 

AH        de  world      am      sad       and  drear  -  y,       Eb    -   rv      where        I 

ffi\\  -  *-±-      ^r  -^  —  i  —  r  -i  —  ^-  I      '      ^ 

roam. 

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s  j.j,  j  J 

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—j  —  J  —  *  —  J-  -J—                            —  ^H  j}—  g  —  J  ^ 
Oh!       dar-keys,  how  my  heart  grows  wear-  y,   Far  from      de    old  folks       at 

home. 

KB  —     —  i—  J  —   —  J  —  --J5  —  —  «^  —  j    x    J  —      ~-%    j  — 
/-\ 

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<l                                                                                                                                                                    «                            "S         •  ^T—  -J 

—  ^\-~  =^-41 

OLD  FOLKS  AT  HOME. 


71 


2d  Verse. 


:=z£ 


All          round    de        lit  -  tie     farm        I         wan  -  der'd  When  I         was  young, 


^— r-=^=qg=  :T:g  -       = 

^  i    r  L_E-^— *— j 


Den  ma   -  ny     hap  -  py     days      I     squan-der'd,      Ma  -  ny       de  songs      I       sung. 


When 


I      was     play  -  ing     wid       my       brud  -  der.        Hap      -      py        was        I, 


CHO. 


3 


:f=^ 


=£==£= 


Oh!          take     me       to      my     kind    old    mud-der,      Dere   let     me   live     and      die. 
3d  Verse. 


>K  ff  Jf                          N        iv        'p"        IN 

*  =  -*- 

-.  —  j  1  -i—,  —  3  — 

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9                                           9V 

One             lit   -  tie      hut       a  -  mong       de      bush  -  es, 

0  tt 

One            dat          I       love, 

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0 

9-—  - 

k                                                                                     I 

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Tqr            o             J        J        m        J 

!  ,       1 

^                              W                 M                                                      J 

Still           sad  -  ly        to       my    mem  -  'ry     rush  -  es, 

No      mat  -  ter  where     I       rove. 

_.  j  , 

P—  I—          —  KT-               —  N  KT- 

*  •  T~ 

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J         f  ^~~^           J 

\  f-  — 

-  ^          J  .  PS  L     ^ 

When        will        I       see       de      bees        a        hum-ming        All           round     de      comb? 
CHO. 

n  +t 

y  «x        t                          v 

h. 

XL    ff                            CZI^ZII  ZEHZZ5 

•      i    • 

j      ^    k.    i      i           N» 

-^V-    -J-                   -J^—  J- 

r:  —  \- 

—  M  — 

-*-  ^  ^  J    J-  =^-^—  H 

When        will       I       hear     de      ban  -  jo      tum-ming  Down     in    my  good     old    home? 


ROCK  ME  TO  SLEEP. 

MRS.  ELIZABETH  AKERS  ALLEN,  first  known  to  the  literary  world  under  the  nom  de 
plume  of  Florence  Percy,  was  born  in  Strong,  Franklin  County,  Maine,  October  9,  1832.  In 
1860,  she  married  Paul  Akers,  the  sculptor,  who  died  within  a  year.  She  afterwards  married 
E.  M.  Allen,  of  New  York. 

While  in  Italy,  she  sent  to  the  Philadelphia  Saturday  Evening  Post  her  song  of  "  Rock 
me  to  Sleep."  It  was  published,  and  immediately  became  immensely  popular.  Within 
six  years  from  that  time,  several  persons  had  so  identified  themselves  with  the  favorite  as 
to  imagine  that  it  had  been  evolved  from  their  own  inner  consciousness.  The  most  per- 
sistent and  furious  of  these  claimants  was  one  Hon.  Mr.  Ball,  of  New  Jersey,  who  in  a 
many-columned  article  in  the  New  York  Tribune,  and  in  the  most  absurd  pamphlet  ever 
written,  attempted  to  prove  that  that  mother  was  his  mother,  and  the  lullaby  was  one  she 
sang,  or  might  have  sung  to  him.  In  a  witty  and  convincing  reply  in  the  New  York  Times 
of  May  27, 1867,  the  lady's  claim  is  not  so  much  insisted  upon,  which  was  deemed  unneces- 
sary, as  the  Hon.  Mr.  Ball's  "title  to  Mrs.  Akers's  mansion  in  the  literary  skies"  is  disposed 
of  forever.  The  reply  was  written  by  William  D.  O'Connor,  of  Washington,  who  apprised 
Mrs.  Allen  of  his  friendly  act  only  after  the  manuscript  had  been  sent  to  the  printer. 

This  preeminently  womanly  song  has  been  set  to  music  by  many  composers,  and  made 
merchandise  by  as  many  publishers ;  but  its  author  has  never  received  for  it  any  compen- 
sation except  the  five  dollars  paid  her  by  the  journal  in  which  it  originally  appeared. 


72 


OUR   FAMILIAR   SONG& 


Russell  &  Co.,  of  Boston,  who  published  the  well-known  air  to  it,  composed  by  Ernest  Leslie, 
acknowledged  that  they  had  made  more  than  four  thousand  dollars  on  the  song,  and  they 
sent  a  messenger  to  Mrs.  Allen,  offering  five  dollars  apiece  for  as  many  songs  as  she  would 
write  for  them,  which  should  be  equally  popular  with  "Kock  me  to  sleep"!  The  royal 
offer  was  not  accepted  then ;  but  when  Mrs.  Allen  was  a  homeless  widow,  with  two  chil- 
dren in  her  arms,  she  sent  the  firm  a  little  song, — which  was  promptly  rejected,  with  the 
simple  comment  that  they  "  could  make  nothing  of  it."  The  firm  has  since  become 
bankrupt. 

The  air  here  given  is  the  production  of  J.  MAX  MUELLER,  son  of  C.  G.  Mueller,  a  noted 
German  composer.  He  was  bora  in  Altenburg,  Germany,  June  19,  1842,  received  a  musi- 
cal education,  and  came  to  the  United  States  in  1860.  On  the  breaking  out  of  the  war  in 
1861,  he  enlisted  in  the  Twenty-ninth  New  York  Volunteers,  and  subsequently  was  an  Aid  to 
General  Steinwehr.  He  participated  in  many  of  the  battles  of  the  Army  of  the  Potomac, 
and  composed  many  songs  while  in  the  field.  Since  1866,  he  has  resided  in  West  Chester, 
Penn.,  where  he  teaches  music. 

By  special  permission  of  Louis  Meyer. 

— fV- 


• 


-x- 


1.  Back -ward,  turn.... 

2.  Back  -  ward,  flow.... 


buck   -  ward,      O     Time, in      your    flight, 

back   -  ward,      O      tide of       the      years  1 


I 


^-X- 


1X1 


Make me      a    child   a -gain,  just  for     to-night! 

I am     so    wear    -    y  of  toil  and  of  tears, 


Mo  -   t her,  come.... 
Toil     with -out.... 


Kt-  ' 


back      from      the   ech    -    -    -    o  -  less  shore, 
re    -  com -pense,  tears....       all     in   vain, 


Take       me          a- gain to  your 

Take     them     and  give me    my 

A   A   A   A         A         A 


rit. 


BOCK   ME    TO    SLEEP,    MOTHER. 


73 


m 


W=4 


£=S=J: 


heart,         as      of   yore; 
child   -    hood    a  -  gain; 

H^^^^s 


Kiss from  my  fore    -    head  the    fur    -     -    rows  of 

I have  grown  wear   -   y      of     dust and   de  - 


care, 
-  cay, 


Smooth the  few    sil  -  ver  threads     out of     my   hair, 

Wear  y      of    fling     -     ing   my  soul wealth  a" -way, 


O     -    -     ver       my     slum    -    -    bers      your     lov 
Wear    -     -    v          of      sow     -     -     ing        for      oth 


ing     watch  keep, 
ers        to      reap, 


-4-  -4-    -4-  -0-  -4-  -J-  -J-    -4-  •*  •*-  *    *    *    *    * 


..  -9-  -f-  -4-  -1-  -a 


74 

Backward,  turn  backward,  O  Time,  in  your  flight, 
Make  me  a  child  again,  just  for  to  night ! 
Mother,  come  back  from  the  echoless  shore, 
Take  me  again  to  your  heart,  as  of  yore ; 
Kiss  from  my  forehead  the  furrows  of  care, 
Smooth  the  few  silver  threads  out  of  my  hair, 
Over  my  slumbers  your  loving  watch  keep, 
Rock  me  to  sleep,  mother,  rock  me  to  sleep. 

Backward,  flow  backward,  O  tide  of  the  years ! 

I  am  so  weary  of  toil  and  of  tears, 

Toil  without  recompense,  tears  all  in  vain, 

Take  them  and  give  me  my  childhood  again  ; 

I  have  grown  weary  of  dust  and  decay, 

Weary  of  flinging  my  soul-wealth  away  ; 

Weary  of  sowing  for  others  to  reap, 

Rock  me  to  sleep,  mother,  rock  me  to  sleep. 

Tired  of  the  hollow,  the  base,  the  untrue, 
Mother,  O  mother,  my  heart  calls  for  you ; 
Many  a  summer  the  grass  has  grown  green, 
Blossomed  and  faded,  our  faces  between, 
Yet,  with  strong  yearning  and  passionate  pain, 
Long  I  to-night  for  your  presence  again. 
Come  from  the  silence  so  long  and  so  deep,  — 
Rock  me  to  sleep,  mother,  rock  me  to  sleep. 


OUR  FAMILIAR  SONUS- 


Over  my  heart,  in  days  that  are  flown, 
No  love  like  mother-love  ever  has  shone ; 
No  other  worship  abides  and  endures 
Faithful,  unselfish,  and  patient,  like  yours  ; 
None  like  a  mother  can  charm  away  pain 
From  the  sick  soul  and  the  world-weary  brain ; 
Slumber's  soft  calms  o'er  my  heavy  lids  creep,— 
Rock  me  to  sleep,  mother,  rock  me  to  sleep. 

Come,  let  your  brown  hair,  just  lighted  with  goldr 
Fall  on  your  shoulders  again,  as  of  old; 
Let  it  drop  over  my  forehead  to-night, 
Shading  my  faint  eyes  away  from  the  light, 
For  with  its  sunny-edged  shadows  once  more 
Haply  will  throng  the  sweet  visions  of  yore  •, 
Lovingly,  softly,  its  bright  billows  sweep,— 
Rock  me  to  sleep,  mother,  rock  me  to  sleep. 

Mother,  dear  mother,  the  years  have  been  long 
Since  I  last  listened  your  lullaby  song; 
Sing,  then,  and  unto  my  soul  it  shall  seem 
Womanhood's  years  have  been  only  a  dream. 
Clasped  to  your  heart  in  a  loving  embrace, 
With  your  light  lashes  just  sweeping  my  face,  — 
Never  hereafter  to  wake  or  to  weep,  — 
Rock  me  to  sleep,  mother,  rock  me  to  sleep. 


THE  GRAVES  OF  A  HOUSEHOLD. 

THE  words  of  this  sweet  song  are  very  characteristic  of  their  author,  FELICIA  HEMANS, 
The  second  stanza  commemorates  the  death  of  her  brother,  Claude  Scott  Browne,  who  was 
deputy  commissary-general  at  Kingston,  Canada,  and  died  there  in  1821.  The  song  was  a 
favorite  with  the  Barker  family,  who  gave  popular  concerts  throughout  the  United  States, 
forty  years  ago,  and  the  music  was  arranged  by  NATHAN  BARKER,  one  of  the  quartette. 

Plaintively.  .^ 


_^ _—•• fc.—_  .  —      ,-  .* — . "^•^^r—         ^^i- 

grew          in  beau  -  ty  side     by    side, They       fill'd       .     one    home    with 

•»  i   .    .     i ——  .1  -    .  -    i    .  -  — • t  — — T —  — —    W         — f 


They  grew  in  beau  -  ty  side     by     side, 


They  fill'd  one  home  with 


THE  GttA  VES  OF  A  HO  USEHOLD. 


S3 


Their         graves         are     sev  -  er*d  far    and    wide, 

— -N K— =JT:^:=^f=:i 

"^=^EEi=5=E:J=tE 


75 


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Their         graves         are     sev  -  er'd  far    and    wide, 


^r\     ^    I * ^ ii J s .if_!5 

0 1     0 !•     0 


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T=    EiE    EP 
=^=^ — h         *^ — f 


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mount          and      stream  and       sea. 


T  _    _  _  i=irs  _  ns-a—  -.  _  n5- 
=*=<=g_  J—  H-i=f= 


The      same        fond  mo  -  ther  bent   at 


-,— j- 


mount         and    stream  and       sea. 


The     same         fond  mo  -  ther  bent    at 


FJ—   ^ — f^+—i—  =_z  }=*—      zd3z===: 

^-       -rr-*-  4  i-'  4  4  -          4 


= 

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-j f r js-j ,      — : 

3 i — i. ^=^_ — : 

w. ^-_ *-*-    _j. 


7(5 


OUR   FAMILIAR   XONGt>. 


Where         are 


these  dream    -    ers 


pip  ip||ii;p 


•:£=: 

*: 


They  grew  in  beauty  side  by  side, 

They  filled  one  home  with  glee ; 
Their  graves  are  severed  far  and  wide, 

By  mount,  and  stream,  and  sea ; 
The  same  fond  mother  bent  at  night 

O'er  each  fair  sleeper's  brow, 
She  had  each  folded  flower  in  sight. 

Where  are  those  dreamers  now  ? 

Ont,  'midst  the  forests  of  the  West, 

By  a  dark  stream  is  laid — 
The  Indian  knows  his  place  of  rest, 

Far  in  the  cedar  shade ; 
The  sea,  the  blue,  lone  sea  hath  one  — 

He  sleeps  where  pearls  lie  deep; 
He  was  the  loved  of  all,  yet  none 

O'er  his  low  bed  may  weep? 


One  sleeps  where  southern  vines  are  dressed 

Above  the  noble  slain  — 
He  wrapt  his  colors  round  his  breast, 

On  a  blood-red  field  of  Spain ; 
And  one  —  o'er  her  the  myrtle  showers 

Its  leaves  by  soft  winds  fanned  — 
She  faded  'midst  Italian  flowers, 

The  last  of  that  bright  band ! 

And,  parted  thus,  they  rest  who  played 

Beneath  the  same  green  tree; 
Whose  voices  mingled  as  they  prayed 

Around  one  parent  knee  — 
They  that  with  smiles  lit  up  the  hall, 

And  cheered  with  song  the  hearth  I 
Alas!  for  love,  if  thou  wert  all, 

And  naught  beyond,  O  earth ! 


SONGS  OF  EXILE, 


They  trod  the  crowded  streets  of  hoary  towM, 

Or  tilled  from  year  to  year  the  wearied  fields, 
And  in  the  shadow  of  the  golden  crowns 

They  gasped  for  sunshine  and  the  health  it  yields. 
They  turned  from  homes  all  cheerless,  child  and  man, 

With  kindly  feelings  only  for  the  soil, 
And  for  the  kindred  faces,  pinched  and  wan, 

That  prayed,  and  stayed,  unwilling,  at  their  toil. 
They  lifted  up  their  faces  to  the  Lord, 

And  read  his  answer  in  the  westering  sun, 
That  called  them  ever  as  a  shining  word, 

And  beckoned  seaward  as  the  rivers  run. 

—  John  Boyle 


Prom  clime  to  clime  pursue  the  scene, 
And  mark  in  all  thy  spacious  way, 

Where'er  the  tyrant,  Man,  has  been, 
There  Peace,  the  cherub,  can  not  stay, 
In  wilds  and  woodlands  far  away, 

She  builds  her  solitary  bower, 
Where  only  anchorites  have  trod, 
Or  friendless  men,  to  worship  God, 

Have  wandered  for  an  hour. 

—  Thomas  Campbell. 


They  sat  them  down  upon  the  yellow  sand, 
Between  the  sun  and  moon,  upon  the  shore; 

And  sweet  it  was  to  dream  of  Fatherland, 
Of  child,  and  wife,  and  slave ;  but  evermore 
Most  weary  seemed  the  sea,  weary  the  oar, 

Weary  the  wandering  fields  of  barren  foam. 

Then  some  one  said,  "  We  will  return  no  morel" 
And  all  at  once  they  sang,  "  Our  island  home 

Is  far  beyond  the  wave ;  we  will  no  longer  roam ! " 

—Alfred  Tennyson- 


SONGS  OF  EXILE, 


BAY   OF    DUBLIN. 

LADY  DUFFERIN'S  peculiar  pathos  is  even  more  delicately  apparent  in  this  song  of  hers 
than  in  her  better  known  "  Irish  Emigrant."  The  wail  is  set  to  the  old  melody  for  which 
Moore  made  his  "  Last  Rose  of  Summer." 


Sempre  ad  lib.  con  moltissimo  espressione. 

jg_  fc,  *,  "  3  —  ^ 

—  s  1  —  ^^  —  s 

rf      —  P  ^  0  —  ;;  j  —  ' 

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Q         '               ,j         5           E 

j              ^   *        ^    1 

(  ^  1.     Oh!  Bay      of       Dub-lin!       my     heart  you're  troub-lin',              Your  beau  -ty 
5£  2.  Sweet  Wick  -  low  moun  -  tains  !    the      sun  -  light  sleep  -  ing                 On  your  green 
3.  How     oft  -    en       when              at     work,     I         sit  -  tin',              And  mus  -  ing 

tf    b  r       *i 

x 

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i 

J^_    [1     \     ^r 

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Sempre  colla  voce. 

•~\*     1,      Q                                                                        -w                      " 

i»       s     i» 

B£zg=3=zs 

^HS 

| 

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't^t                        *          j 

^EBS^=5 


haunts  me    like 

banks       is 

sad  -  ly      on 


a        "~fe    -    ver  dream  — 
a          pict  -   ure  rare; 
the        days       of   yore, 


Like    fro  -    zen    foun  -  tains  that  the  sun      sets 

You  crowd      a  -  round     me        like    young  girls 

I     think       I  see  my      Ka    -   tie 


.^_ — »'-0 — »_• — 0 — 1-*-^- 


.  bub-bliu', 
peep  -ing, 
knit  -  tin' 


My  heart's  blood  warms  when  I       but    hear  your  name; 

And  puz  -'zlin'  me      to       say    which  is     most    fair; 

And  the  chil  -  der    play  -  in'     around  the    cab  -  in      door  ; 


And  ne  -  ver 
As  tho'  you'd 
I   think     I 


ty 


80 


OUJi  FAMILIAR  SONGS. 


till 
Bee 
see 


this  life  -pulse  ceas-es, 
your  own  sweet  fa  -  ces 
the  neigh-bors'  fa  -  ces, 


My  ear-  liest,      la    -   test  thought  will  cease  to 
Re-fleet    -    ed       in        that  smooth  and      sil  -  ver 
All  gath  -  erM  round,  their  long  -  lost    friend  to 


i*Tn—    •  -1                         -?    ~*       ~fc- 

1         5 
^  '      i*        f  •    - 

MPpP  P      ^—~'       '    *     !      *                             -j           g  i    •       • 

U—  Ij—  p  

knows    how  fair 
those....         love    - 

that 
\y 

knows    how  fair 

that 

n       I                                                                 *^ 

f<7///z  7/0^  tempo     <'S*' 
^                     primo  con  espress.      . 

,s 

'-):•-  7-                                        —  s  —  zi—           "~i&~ 

?  1 

±±5EH  B  *          H3 

{* 

~l 

ritenuto. 


place  Is, 
pla  -  ces, 
place  is, 


And  no        one 

Tho'  no         one 

Heav'n  knows  bow 


ceres 
cares 
dear 


how 
how 
my 


dear    it 
dear   they 
poor  home 


s 

are 
was 


to 
to 
to 


me. 
me. 
me. 


/rs         /r\     ^rs 


f        r 

col}^  canto.     "^ 


THE  OAK  AND  THE  ASH. 

THIS  is  a  song  of  the  seventeenth  century.  The  air  is  from  Queen  Elizabeth's  "  Vir- 
ginal Book,"  where  it  is  entitled  "The  Quodling's  Delight."  The  hero  of  Scott's  "Kob 
Roy,"  speaking  of  his  old  Northumbrian  nurse,  says  :  "  I  think  I  see  her  look  around  on 
the  brick  walls  and  narrow  streets  which  presented  themselves  from  our  windows,  as  she 
concluded  with  a  sigh  the  favorite  old  ditty,  which  I  then  preferred,  and  —  why  should  I 
not  tell  the  truth?  —  which  I  still  prefer  to  all  the  opera  airs  ever  minted  by  the  capricious 
brain  of  an  Italian  Mus.  Doc. 


Oh,  the  oak,  the  ash,  and  the  bonny  ivy  tree, 
They  flourish  best  at  home  in  the  North  Country." 


THE  OAK  AND  THE  ASH. 


Andante. 


A   North-Country  lass     up     to      Lon  -  don  did  pass,    Although      with    her  na  -  ture    it 


35551:;      m  .*£  .      'r+y*  —  s  4- 

3  p  n  !  —  p 

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isy        n  J       ^                   r2lj          LV    L< 

*    *    9          * 

*  1                *      *    MJ           «      • 

»/         Sj*                              ^               *—  ? 
did     not     agree  ;  Which  made  her  repent  and  so 

of-ten   la-ment,  Still  wish-  ing   a-gain      hi  the 

i>T                    ^TJ^    * 

i             ^  ^- 

_i  _  ^  

J/  fa  [~P  f~^j     —                              —  r^*  '  —  i  — 

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•         *           *         * 

S  t^  ?•  1-         i              •"                  rf? 

_/0  _|  

4        ji       4 

North      for      to    be.        O !  the      oak      and  the  ash,    and   the    .bon  -ny      i  -    vy  tree,    They 

=I=J=H! 


IF 


nzp^— ==J=     :=j==zp=  =p=     =4 j—       :H 

E|==^E|EE!E  =§==EzEE=E^E    =Eg 

^^  ^  r       / 


^= 


riten. 


=T__^H. 

^uteijt 


flour  -  ish     at  home  in     my  own       coun  -  try. 

colla  voce. 


•~f~---  -*=^q.==;=3--i_- ^f=*\ 


^=£=Z 


dim. 


^tt=E33==3=5=c-a 

=^_SEi|rzz^^3l 


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-*——* *— 


A  North  Country  lass  up  to  London  did  pass, 

Although  with  her  nature  it  did  not  agree ; 
Which  made  her  repent,  and  so  often  lament, 
Still  wishing  again  in  the  North  for  to  be. 
O  the  oak,  and  the  ash,  and  the  bonny  ivy-tree, 
They  flourish  at  home  in  my  own  country. 


Fain  would  I  be  in  the  North  Country, 
Where  the  lads  and  the  lasses  are  making  of 

hay; 

There  should  I  see  what  is  pleasant  to  me; — 
A  mischief  light  on  them  enticed  me  away ! 
O  the  oak,  and  the  ash,  &c. 


OUR   FAMILIAR 


I  like  not  the  court,  nor  the  city  resort, 

Since  there  is  no  fancy  for  such  maids  as  me  ; 

Their  pomp  and  their  pride,  I  can  never  abide, 
Because  with  my  humor  it  doth  not  agree. 
O  the  oak,  and  the  ash,  &c. 

How  oft  have  I  been  in  the  Westmoreland  green, 
Where  the  young  men  and  maidens  resort  for  to 

play, 

Where  we  with  delight,  from  morning  till  night, 
Could  feast  it  and  frolic  on  each  holiday. 
O  the  oak,  and  the  ash,  &c. 

The  ewes   and   their  lambs,  with  the  kids  and 
their  dams, 

To  see  in  the  country  how  finely  they  play ; 
The  bells  they  do  ring,  and  the  birds  they  do  sing, 

And  the  fields  and  the  gardens,  so  pleasant  and 

gay- 

O  the  oak,  and  the  ash,  &c. 

At  wakes  and  at  fairs,  being  void  of  all  cares, 
W«  there  with  our  lovers  did  use  for  to  dance ; 


Then  hard  hap  had  I,  my  ill-fortune  to  try, 
And  so  up  to  London  my  steps  to  advance. 
O  the  oak,  and  the  ash,  &c. 

But  still  I  perceive,  I  a  husband  might  have, 
If  I  to  the  city  my  mind  could  but  frame ; 

But  I'll  have  a  lad  that  is  North-Country  bred, 
Or  else  I'll  not  marry  in  the  mind  that  I  am. 
O  the  oak,  and  the  ash,  &c. 

A  maiden  I  am,  and  a  maid  I'll  remain, 
Until  my  own  country  again  I  do  see ; 

For  here  in  this  place  I  shall  ne'er  see  the  face 
Of  him  that's  allotted  my  love  for  to  be. 
O  the  oak,  the  ash,  &c. 

Then,     farewell,    my    daddy,  and    farewell,    my 

mammy, 

Until*  I  do  see  you,  I  nothing  but  mourn  ; 
Remembering    my    brothers,     my    sisters     and 

others, 

In  less  than  a  year,  I  hope  to  return. 
Then  the  oak,  and  the  ash,  &c, 


LOCHABER   NO   MORE. 

ALLAN  KAMSAY,  author  of  the  words  of  "  Lochaber  No  More,"  was  one  of  the  many 
Scottish  i>oets  who  have  sprung  from  humble  life,  and  derived  their  intellectual  strength 
from  the  maternal  side.  He  also  inherited  from  his  mother  a  happy  temperament,  which 
was  fostered  by  success.  He  worked  at  wig-making  in  early  life,  but  after  his  poems  began 
to  bring  him  celebrity  and  money,  he  became  a  bookseller.  In  connection  with  his  shop, 
he  established  the  first  circulating  library  that  Scotland  ever  possessed.  His  pastoral,  en- 
titled "  The  Gentle  Shepherd,"  won  him  wide  popularity,  and  is  considered  by  many  the 
finest  of  its  class  in  the  language.  Under  the  title  of  "  Tea-Table  Miscellany,"  he  published 
a  choice  selection  of  Scottish  and  English  songs,  in  four  volumes  (1724-'40),  which  proved 
very  popular.  He  subjected  himself  to  some  censure  by  curtailing  or  altering,  in  many 
instances,  the  ancient  lyrics. 

Kamsay  was  born  in  Lanarkshire,  October  15,  1686,  and  died  in  Edinburgh,  January 
7,  1758,  in  a  picturesque  house  he  had  built  for  himself  on  the  slope  of  Castle  Hill,  which 
still  stands.  His  son,  Allan  Ramsay,  the  younger  (1713-'84),  became  eminent  as  a  painter. 

The  Scotch  have  long  claimed  the  air  of  "Lochaber  no  more ;"  but  Chappell  has  hinted, 
and  Samuel  Lover  has  proved,  that  its  origin  is  Irish.  It  is  to  be  found  in  a  book  in  the 
British  Museum,  entitled  "New  Poems,  Songs,  Prologues  and  Epilogues,  never  before 
printed,  by  Thomas  Duffet,  and  set  by  the  most  eminent  musicians  about  the  town.  Lon- 
don, 1676."  In  this  volume  the  air  is  called  "  The  Irish  Tune."  The  words  which  Duffet 
wrote  for  it  were  entitled  "  Since  Ccelia's  my  foe,"  and  by  that  name  the  air  was  known  in 
England  for  almost  a  century.  Therefore,  it  was  called  in  England  "The  Irish  Tune," 
seventeen  years  before  there  is  the  first  claim  made  to  it  by  the  Scotch.  It  was  also  found 
in  a  manuscript  collection  of  airs  written  for  the  viola  de  gamba,  1683 -'92,  and  was  there 
entitled  "  King  James's  March  into  Ireland."  In  a  late  collection  it  is  called  "  King  James's 
March  to  Dublin."  Twelve  years  after,  the  song  was  known  in  London  as  "  The  Irish 


LOCHABER  NO  MORE.  83 

Tune,"  when  there  is  evidence  that  Irish  music  was  in  favor  at  the  court  j  King  James 
went  to  Ireland  with  the  strongest  reason  for  wishing  to  excite  Irish  sympathy.  How 
natural  that  the  royal  progress  should  be  made  to  the  sound  of  Irish  airs.  Singularly 
enough,  the  air  can  be  traced  in  its  journey  into  Scotland  from  its  native  land.  Bunting,, 
in  his  "Ancient  Music  of  Ireland,"  without  knowing  of  the  since-discovered  fact  about 
"  The  Irish  Tune,"  says :  "  Another  eminent  harper  of  this  period  was  MYLES  EEILLY,  ot 
Killincarra,  in  the  county  of  Cavan,  born  about  1635.  He  was  universally  referred  to  as 
the  composer  of  the  original  '  Lochaber.'  The  air  is  supposed  to  have  been  carried  into 
Scotland  by  Thomas  Connallon,  born  five  years  later,  at  Cloonmahoon,  in  the  county  of  Sligo. 
O'Neill  calls  him  '  the  great  harper/  and  says  he  attained  city  honors  in  Edinburgh,  where 
he  died."  The  song  first  appeared  in  its  present  form  in  Ramsay's  Tea-Table  Miscellany,"" 
1724.  The  melody  is  said  to  have  so  powerful  an  effect  upon  the  Highlander  in  a  foreign 
army,  in  a  strange  land,  that  military  bands  are  forbidden  to  play  it. 


Affetuoso. 


Fare  -  well      to        Loch-    a    -  ber,      fare  -  well    to       my       Jean!        Y/ uere  heart-some  wi' 


I     ha'e    mo   -    ny         days      been;      For  Loch-a    -    ber      no  more,  Loch  - 


a    -  ber        no        more,        We'll      may-be      re  -    turn      to    Loch  -  a    -  ber        no    more.      These 


r . ^^>-v— . r  -i — | r— | 

JE  pp  E^^3??gp|E^E^^p£= 

~^-f         9 


JLV 


84 


OUR  FAMILIAR  SONGS. 


tears     that         I         shed     they      are          a'         for        ray      dear,  And     no'        for        the 


=::=-      zrzrzzii  j 

E-M?= 


dan  -    gers      at    -    tend  -    ing         on        weir;  Tho'    borne        on  rough  seas      to        a. 


PSE3= 

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J      J 


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;! 


far      dis  -    taut      shore,      May    -    be       to       re  -  turn       to      Loch  -  a  -    ber       no  more. 


Farewell  to  Locliaber,  farewell  to  my  Jean, 
Where  heartsome  wi'  thee  I  ha'e  mony  days  been; 
For  Lochaber  no  more,  Lochaber  no  more, 
We'll  may  be  return  to  Lochaber  no  more. 
These  tears  that  I  shed  they  are  a'  for  my  dear, 
And  no'  for  the  dangers  attending  on  weir; 
Tho'  borne  on  rough  seas  to  a  far  distant  shore, 
Maybe  to  return  to  return  to  Lochaber  no  more. 

Tho'  hurricanes  rise,  and  rise  ev'ry  wind, 
They'll  ne'er  make  a  tempest  like  that  in  my  mind; 
Tho'  loudest  of  thunders  on  louder  waves  roar, 
There's  naething  like  leaving  my  love  on  the  shore. 


To  leave  thee  behind  me,  my  heart  is  sair  pained; 
But  by  ease  that's  inglorious  nofamecanbegain'd ; 
And  beauty  and  love's  the  reward  of  the  brave : 
And  I  maun  deserve  it  before  I  can  crave. 

Then  glory,  my  Jeanie,  maun  plead  my  excuse  : 
Since  honour  commands  me,  how  can  I  refuse? 
Without  it  I  ne'er  can  have  merit  for  thee  ; 
And  losing  thy  favour,  I'd  better  not  be. 
I  gae,  then,  my  lass,  to  win  honour  and  fame  ; 
And  if  I  should  chance  to  come  gloriously  hame 
I'll  bring  a  heart  to  thee  with  love  running  o'er, 
And  then  I'll  leave  thee  and  Lochaber  no  more. 


THE  LAMENT  OF  THE  IRISH  EMIGRANT. 

THE  LAMENT  OF  THE  IRISH  EMIGRANT. 


86 


HELEN  SELINA  SHERIDAN  was  bora  in  Ireland  in  1807.  She  inherited  the  wit  and 
brilliance  of  her  grandfather,  Richard  Brinsley  Sheridan,  and  was  noted  in  fashionable 
circles  for  her  beauty  and  accomplishments.  Besides  the  words  of  the  songs,  with  which 
she  occupied  her  leisure  hours,  she  wrote  music  and  considerable  elegant  literature,  which 
has  not  survived  like  that  of  her  sister,  Mrs.  Norton.  When  but  eighteen  years  old,  she 
married  the  Honorable  Price  Blackwood,  afterward  Lord  DmTerin.  He  died  in  1841,  and 
twenty-one  years  afterward,  when  her  old  and  intimate  friend,  the  Earl  of  Gifford,  was  in 
his  last  illness,  she  became  his  wife,  that  she  might  be  constantly  by  his  side.  He  lived 
but  two  months,  and  five  years  later,  June  13,  1867,  Lady  Gifford  died  also.  The  present 
Earl  Dufferin,  late  Governor-General  of  Canada,  is  her  son. 

The  music  which  so  exquisitely  expresses  the  sentiment  of  Lady  Bufferings  song,  was 
composed  by  WILLIAM  E.  DEMPSTER,  and  many  will  well  remember  hearing  him  sing  it  in 
this  country. 


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bright  May  morn   -   in',       long         a  -  go,     When  first  you        were       my  bride. 


The 


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corn     was  springin'       fresh     and  green,  And  the  lark   sang     loud    and     high,. 


OUR   FAMILIAR   SONGS, 


t  con  esbress 

a 


red       was   on       your  lip.  Ma  -  ry,    And  the   love- light       jn__vour       eve-..^    And  the 


Rail,  ad  lib. 


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red    was    on     your  lip,      Ma-  ry,  And  the  love-light    in 


your    rye. 


Tis     but  a    step     down       yon-   der  lane,  And  the      lit- tie  church  stands      near, 


Staccato  sempre. 


& 


Lentando. 


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church  where  we         were    wed, 

IT-— i 


Ma  -  ry,       I       see  the  spire      from    here ;          But  the 


*•: 


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grave-yard    lies         be  -     tween,    Mii-ry,    And  my    step    might  break  your    rest, For  I've 


r;j     j     J     J   |    J 


THE  LAMENT  OF  THE  IRISH  EMIGRANT. 


laid       you,  dar-   ling,        down        to  sleep,  With  your    ba  -  by        oil      your       breast,  .  For  I've 

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laid        you,    dar -ling,        down       to   sleep,  With  your    ba  -  by          on    your  breast 


I'm  sittin'  on  the  stile,  Mary, 

Where  we  sat  side  by  side, 
On  a  bright  May  morning,  long  ago, 

When  first  you  were  my  bride. 
The  corn  was  springing  fresh  and  green, 

And  the  lark  sang  loud  and  high, 
And  the  red  was  on  your  lip,  Mary, 

And  the  love-light  in  your  eye. 

The  place  is  little  changed,  Mary, 

The  day  as  bright  as  then, 
The  lark's  loud  song  is  in  my  ear, 

And  the  corn  is  green  again  ! 
But  I  miss  the  soft  clasp  of  your  hand, 

And  your  breath  warm  on  my  cheek, 
And  I  still  keep  listenin'  for  the  words, 

You  never  more  will  speak. 

Tis  but  a  step  down  yonder  lane, 

And  the  little  church  stands  near, 
The  church  where  we  were  wed,  Mary, 

I  see  the  spire  from  here  ; 
But  the  graveyard  lies  between,  Mary, 

And  my  step  might  break  your  rest, 
For  I  laid  you,  darling,  down  to  sleep, 

With  your  baby  on  your  breast. 

I'm  very  lonely  now,  Mary, 

For  the,  poor  make  no  new  friends, 
But  Oh  !  they  love  them  better  far, 

The  few  our  father  sends  ! 
And  you  were  all  I  had.  Mary, 

My  blessing  and  my  pride  ; 
There's  nothing  left  to  care  for  now, 

Since  my  poor  Mary  died 


Yours  was  the  brave,  good  heart,  Mary, 

That  still  kept  hoping  on, 
When  the  trust  in  God  had  left  my  soul, 

And  my  arm's  young  strength  was  gone ; 
There  was  comfort  ever  on  your  lip, 

And  the  kind  look  on  your  brow  ; 
I  bless  you  for  that  same,  Mary, 

Though  you  can't  hear  me  now. 

I  thank  you  for  the  patient  smile, 

When  your  heart  was  fit  to  break, 
When  the  hunger  pain  was  gnawing  there, 

And  you  hid  it  for  my  sake ; 
I  bless  you  for  the  pleasant  word, 

When  your  heart  was  sad  and  sore; 
Oh,  I  am  thankful  you  are  gone,  Mary, 

Where  grief  can't  reach  you  more  ! 

I'm  bidding  you  a  long  farewell, 

My  Mary,  kind  and  true, 
But  I'll  not  forget  you,  darling, 

In  the  land  I'm  going  to. 
They  say  there's  bread  and  work  for  all, 

And  the  sun  shines  always  there; 
But  I'll  not  forget  old  Ireland 

Were  it  fifty  times  as  fair. 

And  often  in  those  grand  old  woods, 

I'll  sit  and  shut  my  eyes, 
And  my  heart  will  travel  back  again, 

To  the  place  where  Mary  lies. 
And  I'll  think  I  see  the  little  stile, 

Where  we  sat  side  by  side; 
And  the  springing  corn,  and  the  bright  May  morn. 

When  first  you  were  my  bride. 


OUR    FAMILIAL'    SONGS. 


ERIN   IS   MY   HOME. 

THOMAS  HAYNES  BAYLY  wrote  the  following  song.  The  music  is  a  popular  German 
air,  arranged  by  IGNATZ  MOSCHELES,  the  eminent  composer  and  pianist,  who  was  born  in 
Prague  in  1794.  He  left  his  country  for  travel  and  study,  and  finally  settled  in  London. 
where  he  died,  March  10,  1870.  His  musical  memoirs,  edited  by  his  wife,  were  published 
in  New  York,  under  the  title  "  Recent  Music  and  Musicians." 


mp  Andante  espressivo 


1.  Oh!      I    haveroam'din    ma- ny        lands,  And    ma-   ny  friends  I've    met; 

2.  In       E  -rin's  isle  there's  manly       hearts,         And    bos  -  oms   pure    as       snow;  In 


m 


3.    If      Eng-land  were  my  place   of       birth, 


I'd      love   her    Iran  -  quil    shore ; 

i  -*--*-  i 


If 


one       fair  scene  or    kind-ly        smile 
E    -  rin's  isle  there's  right  good  cheer. 


Can      this      fond  heart     for    -    get;  But 

And  hearths    that  ev   -      er         glow.  In 


^ 


bon   -   nie  Scot-land  were  my      home,  Her    mountains      I'd         a    -    dore ;  Tho' 

•J^~f~£=f=fe=^=;=g=    -»    1" -T  £4— j"  J      J- 


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I'll      con  -  fess  that  I'm  con  -    tent, 
E-    rin's  isle    I'd  pass    my      time. 


No    more        I      wish    to        roam  ;  Oh  I 

No    more        I      wish    to        roam;  Oh! 


i  ,         ~f         ~]      ;  j 

ZZ*_       t 


steer     my  bark  to      E  -  rin's      We, 


For       E   -    rin      is       my       home, 


Oh! 


•     i 


•*— r- 


steer      my  back  to     E  -  rin's     Isle, 


For 


* * * 

E    -    rin     is      my       home,  Oh! 


-^ J n« ^ 


EltlX  IS  MY  HOME. 


89 


stivr      my  bark  to      E  -  rin's      Isle, 

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steer      my  back   to      E  -  rin's    Isle, 


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5 — ^_^^i_^- 


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For       E    -   rin      is         mv        home. 


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For 

f= 


E    -     rin     is        nn 


home. 


PAT    MALLOY. 

THE  song  of  "Pat  Malloy"  occurs  iu  the  play  of  "Arrah  na  Pogue."  Its  author,  DION 
BOUCICAULT,  actor  aud  dramatic  writer,  was  born  in  Dublin,  December  26, 1822.  His  father, 
a  French  refugee,  was  a  merchant  in  that  city.  The  son  was  educated  in  England.  Among 
the  multitude  of  plays  which  he  has  written  or  adapted,  is  the  representation  of  "  Rip  Van 
Winkle,"  which  Joseph  Jefferson  has  made  so  popular.  Boucicault  has  spent  a  great  deal 
of  time  in  this  country,  although  London  is  his  home. 


age,      I       was    my      moth  -  er's    fair-hair'd      boy,  She 

pur  -  ty    place,    of       goold  there    is        no        lack,  I 

-    mer  -   i   -    ca        a    -    cross    the    seas       I        roam,         And 


fE^E^IE^1 


t^f 


1.  At       six  -  teen  years    of 

2.  Oh,      Eng-land      is       a 

3.  From    Ire  -  land      to        A 


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kept     a        lit  •  tie 
trudged  from  York    to 
ev  -    ry     shill  -  ing 

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E 

«i  ,.    .    4      i  .           m 

A 

four -teen  c-liil -dreu,"  Pat,  says  she,  "which  heav'n  to  me  has  sent, 
Eng  -  lish  girN  are  beau  -  ti  -  ful,  their  loves  I  don't  de  -  cline, 
moth  -  er  could  not  write,  but  on  there  came  from  Fa-  ther  Boyce; 

M- 

rfl — ?       I      ii ii—  —  ^——A——i=:.  —  ii * *— f-?— 


— F— ¥ 

_j _. ^ —  _ — j- 

s 51 jg      -  L.     .    * !-t 

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But 

The 
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OUR  FAMILIAR  SONGS. 


j)  fluff—  >      -*»       "»,  rx- 

N  N  *  — 

—  -9  f  

_  —                    —  _  — 

|P-  -*—  •—£-*-  -J  J          J 
chil  -  der    aint     like      pigs,     you     know—  they 
eat  -  ing,  and      the      drink  -  ing        too,       is 
heav'n  bless  you,    Pat,"    says      she—    "I       hear 

can't               pay 
beau  -  ti     -    ful 

-^  i.  ^  

the      rent!"               She 
and       fine  ;                But 
er's      voice  !"             But 

S=  -S—  T— 

1  —  f=|    p 

/         m        _«       _-?  — 
—  2  0  *  — 

—  J,  2  

:«b_^_ 

^I*1—  

e)           

Li*_       J__ 

—  .1   *   ^ 

gave    me       ev'  -  ry        shil  -   ling  there       was  in         the     till, 

in        a       cor-  ner       of         my      heart,  which    no    -     bo   -   dv        can     see, 
now    I'm     go   -  ing      home       a    -    gain,        as      poor      as          I          be  -  gan, 


And 
Two 
To 


kiss'd  me  fif  -    ty  times  or  more,   as  if       she'd  nev-ergether  fill, —  "Oh, 

eyes  of       I  -    rish  blue  are     al-ways  peep-   ing  out        at  me!  Oh, 

make  a  hap  -  py  girl  of   Moll,   and  sure       I  think        I  can.  Me 

t-S-fc— 


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^^^ — — *        *  — — _iz^j=z — ^m^~ — _zzb: 


^EjE^ 

_5:_5H! 


*  w 

heav'n  bless  you,  Pat,"    says  she,  "and  don't  for    -  get,  my      boy,  That  ould 

Mol   -    ly,  dar  -   lin,  ne    •    ver  fear,   I'm    still  your     own  dear  boy—  Ould 

pock   -  cte  they  are  emp  -  ty,    but     me    heart  is       filled  with  joy;  For  ould 

fe 


1 — J — .|_tJ_|__JE3-  ~ 


Ire  -  land       is 

is 

Ire     land       is 


your  coun  -  try,  and 
me  conn-  try,  and 
me  coun  •  try,  and 


your  name  is 
me  name  is 
me  name  is 


Pat       Mai  - loy!" 
Pat       Mai  -  loy. 
Pat      Mai -loy. 


3= 


i 


- 


THE    EX1I.1-:    OF    A'/.'/.Y. 


THE   EXILE   OF   ERIN. 


91 


WHEN  THOMAS  CAMPBELL  had  fairly  set  forth  as  a  literary  adventurer,  he  went  over  to 
Germany  to  acquaint  himself  with  the  men  and  manner  of  his  chosen  profession.  The  first 
incident  of  his  journey  that  has  a  direct  interest  for  posterity  was  his  opportunity  to  watch 
the  progress  of  the  battle  of  Hoheulinden,  which  he  has  made  better  known  to  most 
American  schoolboys  than  many  of  the  engagements  of  our  own  Eevolution.  At  Ham- 
burg he  met  Anthony  M'Cann,  an  Irishman,  and  a  leader  of  the  Irish  Rebellion  of  1798, 
who  was  then  an  exile  from  his  home.  Prom  the  sympathy  which  his  lot,  and  that  of  his 
confederates,  aroused  in  Campbell's  kindly  nature,  came  the  beautiful  lyric  that  follows. 
The  air  is  the  old  Irish  melody,  "  Savourneen  Deelish." 


1.  There         t-arne      to     the    beach       a    poor 
3.  "Oh!  E    -   rin,  my    coun   -try,  tho' 


v~ 


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•••••• 


1    r 


j-^E=bf  E3 

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Ex  -    ile     of      E    -   rin,  The      dew     on  his     thin  robe  was    hea    -   vy  and  chill,  For  his 

sad      and   for-  sak  -  en,    In      dreams  I    re  -    vis  -   it     thy     sea    -  beat  -  en  shore ;      But,  a  - 


coun  -  try    he  sigh'd,  when  at       twi  -  light   re  -  pair  -  ing,    To     wan  -  der      a  -  lone      by    the 
las !       in      a       far      for  -  eign    laud      I       a   -  wak  -  en,    And   sigh     for   the  friends  who  can 


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OUJt   FAMILIAR    SONGS. 


wind  -beat-en  hill; 
meet    me    no  more. 


But  the  day   -  star  at-traet  -  ed    his      eyes'    sad    de  -  vo  -  tion,Forit 
Ah !      cru    -     el        fate !    wilt  thou     ne    -  ver     re  -  place  me   In    a 


rose....    o'er  his    own     na  -  tive    isle      of    the      o    -  cean,  Where  once  in    tin-    tire        of  his 
man    -     sion    of  peace,  where  no     per  -  ils   can    chase  me?  Ah  1    ne    -  Y(        a -gain     shall  toy 


---) 

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youth  -  ful     e  -    mo  -  tion,  He       sang    the  bold    an  -  them    of       E    -    rin       go  bragh. 
bro  -  there  em  -  brace  me !  They    died     to      de  -  fend    me,  or      live       to        de-plore ! 


z=f=t:= 

2.  "Oh!  sad        is     my    fate!"    said  the 

4.  "Oh!         where      is     my     ca    -    bin  door, 


..-11   -t 


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faj^ 

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|  TT^w- 

heart-bro  -  ken  stran -ger,"The    wild  deer  and  wolf    to       a        cov    -   crt  can  flee; 

fast      by    the    wild  woo               Sis-ters,and  sire,    did   you      weep     for    its  fall? 

EG 


But 
Oh! 


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THE  EXILE  OF  ERIN. 


93 


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I       have   no      re  -  fuge  from      fa  -  mine  and     dan  -  ger,      A     home  and     a  coun  -  try    re  - 

here      is     the    moth  -  er   that    look'd    on    inv     child-hood?  And  where    is     the  ho  -  soin  frit-nd 


where      is     the    moth  -  er  that    look'd    ou   my     child-hood?  And  where    is     the    bo  -  som  friend, 


main    not    to    me; 
dear  -  er   than  all? 


Ah!      ne     -    er    a -gain      in    the    green    sha-dy    bo\v-ers,  Where  my 
Ah,     my         sad     heart!    long   a   -    ban  -  don'd  by    pleas  -  ure,  Why 


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IS *L 


••••I1     x 

fore     -      fa  -  thers  liv'd,  shall    I      spend  the  sweet  hours,  Or    cov    -   er    my  harp    with  the 

didst thou         doat     on      a       fast     fad-iug    tmi-sure?  Tears  like       the         rain  -  drop  may 


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wild-Ayo-ven    flow  -ers,  And     strike  the  sweet  mini  -  bers  of       E    -    rin      go  bragh. 
fail    with-  out    meas-ure,But      rap  -  ture  and   beau  -  ty  they    can-    not       re-call! 


(* « 


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yet,       all     its      sad        re  -  col   - 


94 


OUll   FAMILIAR    SONGS. 


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-   lee  -  tions  sup  •  press  -  ing,  Oue      dy    -      iug        wish    my  lone       bo-    som  shall  draw,       Oh  I 


0 
E    -    rin!  an      ex    -   ile    be  -  queaths  thee  hU    bless  -  ing !  Dear    land    of    my    fore  -  fa- 1 hers, 

v'       — gi — ^ — -« — * — s j     *~r  0 — . — *-- 2»m^ — 9 — : j - -»izii    — 4-     — \r--~'     """ 
-JT^-*-    -F^pf-U^=£^r-  -jr-p-      »-*--14-^-^^JV-|-  - 

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E    •    rin     gobragh!         Oh!       bu-ried  and    cold,    when  my   heart    stills  its     mo  -  tion,  Green 


•  •      thy  fields,  sweetest    isle       of    the      o -cean,  And  thy  harp-strik-ing  bards    sing  a  - 

lii        i 

-* — i-*- 


fr— i— 


II 


^F  -^ 

loud  with  du  -  vo  -    tiou,  Oh!     E    -   rin,   ma    vour  -  neen!         E   -    rin       gobragh!" 


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I  ISLE  OF  BEAUTY,  FARE   THEE  WELL, 


95 


There  came  to  the  beach  a  poor  exile  of  Erin, 

The  dew  on  his  thin  robe  was  heavy  and  chill, 
For  his  country  he  sighed  when  at  twilight  re- 
pairing, 

To  wander  alone  by  the  wind-beaten  hill : 
But  the  day-star  attracted  his  eye's  sad  devotion, 

For  it  rose  o'er   his   own  native  isle  of  the 

ocean, 
Where  once  in  the  fire  of  his  youthful  emotion, 

He  sang  the  bold  anthem  of  Erin  go  bragh. 

•"Oh!   sad  is  my  fate !"    said   the   heart-broken 

stranger, 

"  The  wild  deer  and  wolf  to  a  covert  can  flee; 
But  I  have  no  refuge  from  famine  and  danger, 

A  home  and  a  country  remain  not  for  me  ; 
Ah !  never  again  in  the  green  shady  bowers, 
Where  my  forefathers  lived,  shall  I  spend  the 

sweet  hours, 

Or  cover  my  harp  with  the  wild  woven  flowers, 
And  strike   the   sweet    numbers   of    Erin   go 
bragh. 

"  Oh  !  Erin,  my  country'  tho'  sad  and  forsaken, 
In  dreams  I  revisit  thy  sea-beaten  shore  ; 

But,  alas  !  in  a  far  foreign  land  I  awaken, 
And  sigh  for  the  friends  who  can  meet  me  no 
more. 


Ah  !  cruel  fate  !  will  thou  never  replace  me 
In  a  mansion  of   peace,  where  no  perils  can 
chase  me  ? 

Ah !  never  again  shall  my  brothers  embrace  me  ! 
They  died  to  defend  me  or  live  to  deplore. 

"  Oh !  where  is  my  cabin  door,  fast  by  the  wild- 
wood? 

Sisters  and  sires,  did  you  weep  for  its  fall  ? 
Oh  !  where  is  the  mother  that  looked  on  my  child- 
hood ? 

And  where  is  the  bosom  friend  dearer  than  all? 
Ah,  my  sad  heart !  long  abandoned  by  pleasure, 
Why  didst  thou  doat  on  a  fast  fading  treas- 
ure ? 

Tears  like  the  rain-drop  may  fall  without  meas- 
ure, 
But  rapture  and  beauty  they  cannot  recall ! 

"  But  yet,  all  its  sad  recollections  suppressing, 

One  dying  wish  my  lone  bosom  shall  draw, 
Oh!  Erin!  an  exile  bequeaths  thee  his  blessing! 

Dear  land  of  my  forefathers,  Erin  go  bragh  ! 
Oh !   buried  and  cold,   when  my  heart  stills  its 
motion, 

Green  be  thy  fields,  sweetest  isle  of  the  ocean, 
And  thy  harp-striking  bards  sing  aloud  with  de- 
votion, 

Oh  !  Erin,  mavourneen !     Erin  go  bragh ! " 


ISLE  OF  BEAUTY,  FARE  THEE  WELL. 

THE  words  of  this  favorite  of  years  were  written  by  THOMAS  HAYNES  BAYLY,  the 
English  writer  of  so  many  singable  poems.  The  music  was  composed  by  THOMAS  A. 
BAWLINGS,  who  was  the  son  of  an  eminent  English  musician,  and  was  born  in  1775.  He 
became  distinguished  as  a  composer,  and  as  performer  upon  various  instruments,  and  died 
about  1833. 


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1  .  Shades      of       eve  -  ning, 
2.     'Tis       the    hour  when 
3.    When     the  waves   are 

A 

close       not    o'er      us, 
hap   -   py     fa  -  ces 
round      me  break-  ing, 

1             h 

Leave     our  lone   -    1 
Smile        a  -  round     th 
As          I    pace      tli 

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bark         a    -   while! 
ta    -    per's      light; 
deck         a    -     lone, 

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96 


OUR   FAMILIAR   SONGS. 


Morn,  a  -  las!  will  not  re -store  us  Yon  -  der  dim 
Who  will  fill  our  va  -  cant  pla  -  ces?  Who  will  sing 
And  my  eye  in  vain  is  seek  -  ing  Some  green  leaf 


and 
our 
to 


dis   - 

songs 
rest 


taut       Isle; 
to   -   night? 
up    -    on; 


•y. 

—  N  — 

n~ 

JS, 

S 

n  

V        Still,      my     fan    -    cy 
Thro'      the     mist     that 
What  would  not         I 

A    i    -r  —  i  —  r 

can       dis  -  cov   -    er      Sun   -   ny  spots  where  friends  may  dwell  ; 
floats        a-bove       us,   Faint  -  ly  sounds   the      ves   -   per      bell; 
give        to    wan  -  der  Where     my   old       com  -  pan  -   ions  dwell? 

i  —  1  N  —  1  1  —  i  —  i  s  1  1  —  i  —  1  —    —  ^  1  ^  —  i 

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J  •                               II 

Dark  -   er       sha  -  dows  round  us    hov    -   er,     Isle        of  Beau  -  ty,  Fare  thee  well! 

Like        a     voice    from  those  who  love       us,  Breath  -  ing  fond  -  ly,  Fare  thee  well  I 

Ab  -  sence  makes    the    heart  grow  fond  -  er,     Isle        of  Beau  -  ty,  Fare  thee  well! 

W 


Shades  of  evening,  close  not  o'er  us, 

Leave  our  lonely  bark  awhile  ! 
Morn,  alas  !  will  not  restore  us 

Yonder  dim  and  distant  isle; 
Still  my  fancy  can  discover, 

Sunny  spots  where  friends  may  dwell ; 
Darker  shadows  round  us  hover, 

Isle  of  Beauty,     Fare  thee  well! 

'Tis  the  hour  when  happy  faces, 
Smile  around  the  taper's  light! 

Who  will  fill  our  vacant  places  ! 
Who  will  sing  our  songs  to  night? 


Thro'  the  mist  that  floats  above  us, 
Faintly  sounds  the  vesper  bell ; 

Like  a  voice  from  those  who  love  us, 
Breathing  fondly     Fare  thee  well ! 

When  the  waves  are  round  me  breaking, 

As  I  pace  the  deck  alone, 
And  my  eye  in  vain  is  seeking 

Some  green  leaf  to  rest  upon  ; 
What  would  not  I  give  to  wander, 

Where  my  old  companions  dwell  ? 
Absence  makes  the  heart  grnw  fonder, 

Isle  of  Beauty,      Fare  thea  well ! 


MY  HEART'S  IN  THE  HIGHLANDS. 

MY  HEART'S  IN  THE  HIGHLANDS. 


9? 


THE  first  four  lines  of  this  song  are  from  an  old  ballad  called  "  The  Strong  Walls  of 
Deny," — which  does  not  leave  a  great  deal  to  be  claimed  by  BURNS,  who  made  the 
remainder. 

The  old  melody  to  which  it  is  set  is  called  "  Portmore."  The  song  was  a  favorite  in 
the  repertoire  of  Henry  Russell,  set  to  music  of  his  owu. 

Harmonized  as  a  Quartette,  by  Edward  S.  Cummins 
Quartette 


1.    My    heart's    in        the      high  -  lands,      my    heart     is      not        here,        My  heart's  in      the 


2.  My     heart's    in         the     high  -  lands,     my     heart     is      not      here,         My  heart's  in       the 


high  -  lands,  a     chas  -  ing     the     deer;         A    chas  -  ing       the    wild  deer,    and    foil -'wing  the 


pip 

z=:_q ^_  _^ — __i_^.__  ._^_ 


.„ j_ 


'* * — 


high  -  lands,  a     chas  -  ing     the     deer ;        A      chas  -  ing       the    wild  deer,    and    foil  -  'wing  the 


roe,         My  heart's  in    the  highlands,wherev  -  er      I         go.        Farewell    to    the  highlands,  fare - 


1=3=3 


roe,  My  heart's  in    the  highlands,wherev  -  er      I         go.        Farewell    to    the  mountains  high, 

-J_       J-,          -        I  >-  '"•+-*•     **     *     +~ 


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E^EtE 


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well     to      the    north,       The    birth  -  place    of       val  -   or,     the      coun  -try       of    worth ;    Wher. 


cov  -  ered  with  snow,      Fare  -  well      to       the    straths  and  green    val-  lies      be  -  low;        Fare - 

A       *- 


—  44 1 0 0 T— | 1 T-| 0 9.       .          — | 1 j _| 0 . — . 0 --. 

1111 


OUR  FAMILIAR  SONGS. 


s. 


1 -1 H — 1 • 

*r"^~j      -_) 

-     ev-  er       I       wandeivwher-ev  -  er       1    rove,  The  hills  and  the  highlands  for-ev  -  er    I'll  love. 


well  to     the     for-ests   and  wild-hanging  woods,  Farewell  to    the   wa- ters  and  wild- pouring  floods. 


I'M  SADDEST  WHEN  I  SING. 

THE  words  of  this  song  were  written  by  THOMAS  HAYNES  BAYLY,  and  the  air  was 
composed  by  SIR  HENRY  ROWLEY  BISHOP. 

Andante. 


I.You    think      I    have       a     mer  -  ry    heart,    Be  -  cause      my  songs  are 
2.    I       heard  them  first      in      that  sweet  house,    I       nev   -    er  more  shall 


used     to      love,     My    harp 


Its 


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bird 
•    las! 


re  -  tains 
'tis      vain 


its       sil    -    ver     note,      Tho'   bond   -  age  chains       his      wing; 
in      win  -     ter     time,       To    mock       the    songs       of       spring; 


His 
Each 


song 
note 


is       not        a          hap    -  py 
re   -  calls      some      with  -  er'd 


. i__ 


one; 
loaf; 


I'm 
I'm 


sad    -    dest  when 
sad    -    dest  when 


sing- 
sing. 


those       who    hear      me 

.J_ 


lit    -    tie      think       I'm       sad 


*-%— ' — * 

•    dest  when       I 


;is 
i 


IF   THOU   WEKT  BY  MY  8WL\ 


9ft 


IF  THOU  WERT  BY  MY  SIDE. 

REGINALD  HEBER  was  born  at  Malpas,  Cheshire,  England,  April  21,  1783.  He  took 
high  honors  at  Oxford  University,  and  afterward  was  distinguished  for  learning  and  piety. 
He  was  settled  in  the  living  of  Hodnut,  when  he  accepted  the  bishopric  of  Calcutta.  He  waa 
unwearied  in  his  missionary  work,  and  it  was  while  he  was  travelling  on  the  Ganges,  to 
visit  the  mission  stations,  that  the  following  lines  to  his  wife  were  written.  Bishop  Heber 
•lied  in  India,  April  23,  1826. 

The  music  of  the  song  was  composed  by  SIDNEY  NELSON. 


Moderate. 


1.   If     thou    wert  by     my       side,     my  love,  How      fast    would  eve  -  ning    fail, 

T N 

— 


2.    I      miss       thee  at      the      dawn  -  ing  gray,  When,    on       our  deck     re  -  clined,  In 

•*•     •*•  •*-  •*•         •*•  . 

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green    Ben- gal    -     a's     palm    •     y    grove,     List -'ning       the    night -in    -    gale. 


If 


care    •  less    ease      my     limbs        I       lay,     And    woe       the     cool  -  er       wind. 


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thou,    my       love,       wert     by     my     side,      My       ba    -    bies      at     my       knee,           How 

/^\ 


:Jv: 


— V 


~K— 

-R 


=IEj~^= 

— + d ! 


--N- 


-*-=- 


S 


S^g^i^3E 

r^  -^4  -i-^—  —  *— -> 


miss     thee,   when      by       Gun  -  ga's  stream     My       twi  -   light    steps  I       guide ; 


But 


g?i    -     ly    would     our      pin    -      uace  glide      O'er      Gun    -  ga's     mi     -    mic         sea. 


most       be  -  neath     the    lamp's        pale    beam,     I       miss        thee  from        my       side ! 

•    c   I 


:rife=:  =i *—  zzfcr :~ f~       f  — T~ T~t~ 

5    r  ^         u^   *• 


V          S 


.V         V 


100 


OUR   FAMILIAR   SONGi*. 


If  thou  wert  by  my  side,  my  love, 
How  fast  would  evening  fail, 

In  green  Bengala's  palmy  grove 
List'ning  the  nightingale. 

If  thou,  my  love,  wert  by  my  side, 

My  babies  at  my  knee, 
How  gaily  would  our  pinnace  glide, 

O'er  Gunga's  mimic  sea. 

I  miss  thee  at  the  dawning  gray. 
When,  on  our  deck  reclined, 

!n  careless  ease  my  limbs  I  lay, 
And  woo  the  cooler  wind. 

I  miss  thee,  when  by  Gunga's  stream, 

My  twilight  steps  I  guide ; 
But  most  beneath  the  lamp's  pale  beam, 

I  miss  thee  from  my  side ! 

I  spread  my  books,  my  pencil  try, 
The  lingering  noon  to  cheer; 


But  miss  thy  kind,  approving  eye, 
Thy  meek,  attentive  ear. 

But  when  of  morn  and  eve  the  star 

Beholds  me  on  my  knee, 
I  feel,  though  thou  art  distant  far, 

Thy  prayers  ascend  for  me. 

Then  on,  then  on,  where  duty  leads, 

My  course  be  onward  still; 
O'er  broad  Hindostan's  sultry  meads, 

O'er  bleak  Almorah's  hill. 

That  course,  nor  Delhi's  kingly  gates, 

Nor  wild  Malwah  detain  : 
For  sweet  the  bliss  us  both  awaits, 

By  yonder  western  main  ! 

Thy  towers,  Bombay,  gleam  bright  they  say. 

Across  the  dark  blue  sea; 
But  ne'er  were  hearts  so  light  and  gay 

As  then  shall  meet  in  thee  ! 


THE  CARRIER   DOVE. 

DANIEL  JOHNSON,  the  composer  of  the  "  Carrier  Dove,"  was  a  music-teacher  in  New 
York,  about  1850.  He  was  a  choral-singer  at  the  Park  Theatre,  conductor  of  music  at 
Palmo's  concert  saloon,  and  a  singer  of  English  glees.  There  is  no  clue  to  the  author  of 
the  words. 


jM4r4r  —  s- 

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; 

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; 

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f   1 

1.  Fly 
2.  Oh! 
3.    I 

£ 

H    - 

shall 

way              to  my        na       -         tive 
fly               to  her       bower,           and 
miss            thy  vis    -    it                    at 

—  i  

land, 
say 
dawn, 

—  ^  —                  —  *  —  t  —  i 

sweet     dove  !             Fly  a  - 
the       chain,              Of  tin; 
sweet     dove  I               I  shall 



H-  —  5  —  ^  —  =  —  * 

!    * 
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T  =  \ 

—  e  — 

way  to  my  na  -  tive 
ty  -  rant  Is  o  -  ver  me 
miss  thy  vis  -  it  at 


land, 
now, 
eve! 


And 

That  I 

But 


bear     these    lint->  to  my 

nev  -  er  shall  mount        my 
bring  me      a       line        from  my 


THE  CARRIER  DOVE, 


101 


ffa           1     "               *          *                    1              1   1           f         ^         1*       i  1         *                                                       1 

b    b                    **^ 

la       -       dy     love,          That  I've  trac'd  with    a         fee     -     ble    hand.                                She 
steed             a   -  gain,         With            hel  -  met     up    -    on           my  brow;                                 No 
la       -       dy     love,         And            then      I      shall      cease       to     grieve!                                I 

.  „  -•                                                                                                                                       -*- 

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'>  0         \  0            :1  •                f  ••• 

2         f!    f!    "T"1"  E3  EE        - 

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•  '^. 

3F 

mar    -      vels   much    at       my       long          de  -   lay,  A       ru   -  mor  of    death  she   has 

friend  to       my      lat  -  tice       a         sol       -    ace    brings,        Ex  -  cept  when  your    voice       is 
can  bear    in        a      dun  -  geon      to  waste  away  youth  ;        I       can       fall  oy      the  conqueror's 


s    s 


^a= 


heard, 
heard, 
sword; 


i      i 


Or  she    thinks,    per  -  haps,  I  false       -     ly      stray,      Then 

When  you  beat        the      bars         with  your  snow     -     y      wings —  Then 

But  I      can -not   en  -  dure         She  should  doubt       my    truth —    Then 


AS  ft      i          f    J        i          »       " 

^                                         i    •—•-•- 

fly       to  her    bower,  sweet 
fly        to  her    bower,  sweet 
by       to  her    bower,  sweet 

3ird. 
bird, 
bird. 

££  * 

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M  i  —  ^—  t 
£~-,-~**£ 

Rj,  OUJt   FAMILIAR    SONGS. 

O,  TAKE  ME  BACK  TO  SWITZERLAND. 

THE  words  of  this  little  song  were  written  by  MRS.  NORTON,  to  a  Tyrolese  air.  It 
was  Jenny  Lind's  rendering  of  it  which  introduced  it  in  the  United  States,  and  made  it 
popular. 


IJE— ! — F 

•       *  •     + 


1.  By  the    dark  waves    of      the      roll -ing      ,ea,  Where  the  white-sail'd  ships  are  toss  -  ing     free, 

2.  I  see      its     hills,      I       see    it**  streams     ItM        ~>lue  lakes  haunt  my    rest  -  less  dreams : 


3.     For    mouths    a  -long    that  gloom -y     shore      Mid        sea-bird's   cry     and      o  -  cean's  roar, 


^ 


Came  a  youth-fulmaid-en,  Pale  and  sor  row    la    den,  With    amourn-ful  voice  sang  she:  "Oh. 
When  the  day    de  -  clin  -  eth,  Or    tne  bright  sun  shin-eth,  Fro  •  sent  still      its  beau  -  ty  seems  :  Oh, 


rf?=m 


m 


5 


Sang  that  mournful  maid -en,  Pale  and  aor-row    la    den,  Then  her  voice   was  heard  no  more.  For 
• f F- 


fefeEf 


take 
take 


me    back       to  Switz    er  -  kand,     My     own       my    dear,   my      na  •  i>ve    .and;     i'l. 
me    back       to  S-^itz  -  er     land,     Up      ot        the  moun-tain     let     me   stand:  Where 


, 


^ 


^4 


far         a  -  way    from  switz  -  er  -  land,  From  home,  from  friends,  from  na  -  live    land-  Where 


R^:  \  I  M 


IA    i 

P3  r-  «  i 

—  i 

9  

i  — 

N- 

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—  A  —  ~5^  —  in 

I  —  i    H 

§fr-  J-!-  *— 

brave     all       dan  -  gen 
flow're    are     bright,    and 

ad*  f  —  !•  —  r 

H^  —  ^  —  *-•  —  ^H 

of      the    main,     To 
skies    are    clear,    For 

•    f\ 

f      *  ^         b      "-J,J' 

see      my    own      dear  Ian3        t»  • 
oh!      I      pine,       I     per  -    ish 

1              h        K          fr                     1 

gain, 
here! 

H 

fe  -^-^-=^=^1^    j'  j.  ji 

for  -  eign     wild  -  flow'rs  cold  -  ly    wave,    The 

bro  -  ken   heart   -   ed  found       a 

-f  —  f  —  r  •    f   f  •    f 

IP 

grave. 

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v  E  B 

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rr  C    E 

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THE  PILGRIM  FATHERS, 


10:J 


THE   PILGRIM   FATHERS. 

WE  owe  "The  New  England  Hymn/'  the  finest  Puritan  lyric  we  have,  to  an  English 
woman,  FELICIA  HEMANS,  whose  spirit  was  strongly  susceptible  to  the  religious  romance 
and  heroism  that  brought  the  pilgrims  across  the  ocean  in  search  of  a  new  home.  Why 
has  no  one  set  to  music  Holmes's  lyric  that  closes : 

"  Yes,  when  the  frowning  bulwarks 

That  guard  this  holy  strand, 
Have  sunk  beneath  the  trampling  surge  — 

In  beds  of  sparkling  sand; 
While  in  the  waste  of  ocean 

One  hoary  rock  shall  stand, 
Be  this  its  latest  legend  — 

Here  was  the  Pilgrim's  Laud ! " 

The  music  of  Mrs.  Hemans's  song  was  written  by  her  sister,  Miss  BROWNE,  and  perhaps 
we  owe  our  possession  of  this,  and  her  other  beautiful  airs,  to  Sir  Walter  Scott  and 
Moscheles.  The  latter  was  visiting  Scott,  and,  upon  leaving,  promised  Sir  Walter  that  he 
would  find  a  London  publisher  for  "  some  pretty  songs  set  to  music  by  a  Miss  Browne,  with 
words  by  her  sister,  Felicia  Hemans."  Moscheles'  diary  records  their  publication. 
« .u.  N  _  i  i 


:'f- 


The   break-  ing     waves  dashed  high,      On        a   stern      and     rock  -  bound  coast ;    And 

•f- 


3 


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woods       a  -   gainst       a        storm  -  y         sky,     Their      gi    -    ant     branch  -  es       tossed, 

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And     the  heav    -    y       night  hung  dark, 


The  hills       and     wa  -  ters       o'er,     When     a 


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es    moored  their  bark      On        the 

.            k.        °                     ^ 

wild    New    Eng  -  land 

shore. 

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They,     the 

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true  -  heart  -  ed,         came; 

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! 

104 


01' ft   FAMILIAR   XONGS. 


Not    with    the   roll      of      the    stir  -  ring  drums,  Or      tbetrum-pet    that   sings       of   fame; 

N        ^  *          N  i 


shook      the  depths    of    the    des  -  ert's    gloom.  With    their  hymns   of     loft    -    y    cheer. 

— f"—  ^ 0    '          0         I  IV \— 


A-midst  the  storm  they  sang!  And  the  stars  heard  and  the    seal     And  the  sounding  aisles  of    the 


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-  them  of    the    free ! 


dim  woods  rang  To     the  an 


+    --    0 *- 


The     o  -  cean  ea  -  gle  soar'd  From    his 

1 


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n.  ,t  liy  Hi.-  white  waves'foam,  And  the  rockingpinesof  the  forest  roar'd ;  This  was  their  welcome  home. 


j^.  Jv   J  J         N       N  ^     -f-     -^-'     . 


P 


,'hat  sought  they  thus  a- far  y     Rright  jew  -  elsbright  jew-els,bright  jew -els      of    the  min,-?     The 

'.  0\  rm  P 


THE  PILGRIM  FATHERS. 


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wealth 

i  of   seas,  the  spoils  of  war?Theysoughtafaith'spureshrine. 
K              --                               1 

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spot  where  first  they  trod,     They  have  left  unstain'd  what  there  they  found,  Freedom    to   wor-sh 

jiii-     L_1_J       i           .  -  *  •<•••  -  J 

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J^IAJ                    1          1       _ 

r  r 

they  found,  Free-dom 

* 

to 

—  1  — 

wor  - 

T"3~ 

ship  God! 

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33; 

The  breaking  waves  dashed  high, 

On  a  stern  and  rock-bound  coast ;  . 

And  the  woods  against  a  stormy  sky, 

Their  giant  branches  tossed: 
And  the  heavy  night  hung  dark, 

The  hills  and  waters  o'er, 
When  a  band  of  exiles  moor'd  their  bark, 

On  the  wild  New  England  shore. 

Not  as  the  conqueror  comes, 

They,  the  true-hearted,  came  ! 
Not  with  the  roll  of  the  stirring  drums, 

Or  the  trumpet  that  sings  of  fame  ; 
Not  as  the  flying  come, 

In  silence  and  in  fear, 
They  shook  the  depths  of  the  desert's  gloom, 

With  their  hymns  of  lofty  cheer. 

Amidst  the  storm  they  sang! 

And  the  stars  heard  and  the  sea! 
And  the  sounding  aisles  of  the  dim  woods  rang, 

To  the  anthem  of  the  free ! 


The  ocean  eagle  soared 

From  his  nest  by  the  white  waves'  foam, 
And  the  rocking  pines  of  the  forest  roared; 

This  was  their  welcome  home  ! 

There  were  men  with  hoary  hair 

Amidst  that  pilgrim  band:  — 
Why  had  they  come  to  wither  there, 

Away  from  childhood's  land? 
There  was  woman's  fearless  eye, 

Lit  by  her  deep  love's  truth  ; 
There  was  manhood's  brow  serenely  high, 

And  the  fiery  heart  of  youth. 

What  sought  they  thus  afar? 

Bright  jewels  of  the  mine  ? 
The  wealth  of  seas,  the  spoils  of  war? 

They  sought  a  faith's  pure  shrine. 
Aye  !  call  it  holy  ground, 

The  spot  where  first  they  trod, 
They  have  left  unstained  what  there  they  found, 

Freedom  to  worship  God. 


CHEER,   BOYS,  CHEER. 

THE  words  of  this  spirited  song  were  written  by  CHARLES  MACKAY;  the  music 
was  composed  by  HENRY  EUSSELL.  In  1843,  Russell  went  home,  and  sang  with  great  suc- 
cess in  England,  Scotland,  and  France.  During  that  visit  he  composed  music  for  several 
songs  of  Charles  Mackay's,  which  he  rendered  with  great  effect,  at  Niblo's,  in  New  York,  on 
his  return.  The  London  Athenaeum,  in  1856,  said :  "Dr.  Charles  Mackay  has  been  voiceless 
for  some  years.  Echoes  of  his  old  music  are  still  common  in  the  streets  where  youngsters 
delight  to  warble  '  Cheer,  boys,  cheer !'  and  in  merry  meeting-places,  where  folks  are  fond 
of  anticipating  'The  good  time  coming."7 
Boldly. 

fc fc. 1 ^ L_ 

^        ^  T     T"  n*<          I 


1.  Cheer,  boys,  cheer, 

2.  Cheer,  boys,  cheer, 


no 
the 


more      of 
stead  -  y 


i  -    die      sor    -   row,  Cour  -  age, 
breeze    is      blow  -  ing,     To     float 

-£-k- 

-t 


true 
us 


hearts 
free 


shall 


106 


OUR  FAMILIAR   SONUS. 


— — ^- — M—  T r — ~l K -I m it — 

i=EEe=8=^=-^— *=$•-. 


bear    us      on     our  way;  Hope    points   be -fore     and      shows  the    bright  to    -  mor  -  row, 

o'er    the      o-ceau's  breast;  The    world  shall  fol    -   low       in       the    track  we're   go   -    ing, 


1 — * y — ~ r« — 

!^:^==i^=g;^=     E3EEH 

jt — L.  *  • — *     *  . — 0 — ^ •=L-*— — 0 0 «-f-J 


Let        us      for  -  get 
The       star     of      En 


the      dark-ness   of       to-day.  So,    fare -well,        Eng-land, 

pire      glit  -  ters  in       the  West-  Here    we       had        toil    and 


t-=nii=£=*=  =f=;=q 

0. m «_•._» . m — 


t? 1 — >"    7 


7- 


=t 

-X?  3» — *znS=-:_Mz:Jiizi 

i>  *V 


much    as       we       a  -  dore       thee,  We'll    dry     the  tears 
lit  -  tie       to      re  -  ward       it,    But     there    shall  plen 


fc==*±=ft=* 


that    we  have  shed     be-fore ; 
ty  smile  up  -  on    our  pain ; 


-, — — - 

^z- ^=S^j3 

* '» 


S 


Why  should  we  weep       to       sail    in  search  of    for    -  tune?  So,     fare   -well,    Eng-land!  fare - 

And    ours  shall    be  the     prai-rie  and  the    for  -   est,    And    bound   -    less  meadows  ripe, 

•*•  -0-    '       -0         -0-    •  0-  -^        +        -»-+-*-  +-  '      +-          A-  '  0-   ',  •»-  -0- 

. t=P*        •  :t=q 


- 


-  -fc»— —4-  i  -|fc 

>-g«  — 

=>          V       'rf- 


:J=:- 


T-HT- 

-  well     for  -  ev  -    er  -  more. 


Cheer,   boys,   cheer,     for       couu-try,   mo-ther    conn  -try, 

Eng   -  land, 


ripe  with    gol  -  den  grain.  Cheer,  boys,   cheer,     for       Eng  -  land,  mo  -  ther    Eng   -  lai 

*'  >  riiJEiElEiipE  z=p== 

— f f f •—  .=t=tii5=ix=z?=i_>_ 

V        ¥        V   .     Y 


Cheer,   boys,  cheer,       the       will  -    ing    strong  right  hand, 
Cheer,  boys,  cheer,         u     -    nit  -     ed    heart      and  hand, 


-r!S— 


Cheer,    boys,  dicer,    th'-n-'s 


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I 1  I        i -I  (  1  •.  T          r- 

^Efr=^^=-j*=z:=g* f— 


TTr — H"- —  -  — j—  — H— T-J—  :— g-jzrj.  — *-T — >< »; — «s K — pr 


U 

wealth  for     hon  -  est       la  -    bour,  Cheer,  boys,    cheer,  for      the      new     and  hap  -  py  land ! 

fe£3l3l-B:i  ^}|l^^^^i^5^qnj3~ 

2»-  /  ^  ^  C        ,j  B 


SONGS  OF  THE  SEA, 


O  happy  ship, 

To  rise  and  dip, 
With  the  blue  crystal  at  your  Up! 

O  happy  crew, 

My  heart  with  you 
Sails,  and  sails,  and  sings  anew  I 

—  Thomas  Buchanan  R«ad. 


Our  country  is  our  ship,  d'ye  see  I 

-  James  Cobb. 


A  fatal  ebbe  and  flow,  alas ! 

To  manye  more  than  myne  and  me. 

—Jean  Ingelovt. 


O  calm,  distant  haven,  where  the  clear  starlight  gleams 
On  the  wild,  restless  waters,  on  the  heart's  restless  dreamt, 
How  oft,  gazing  upward,  my  soul  yearns  to  be 
In  that  far  world  of  angels,  where  is  no  more  seal 

—  Caroline  Elisabeth  Norton. 


SONGS  OF  THE  SEA, 


THE    SEA. 

BRYAN  WALLER  PROCTER  ("  Barry  Cornwall"),  produced  a  great  variety  of  literature, 
but  he  is  most  widely  known  and  best  appreciated  for  his  exquisite  songs.  Of  these,  his 
song  of  "The  Sea,"  is  perhaps  the  best  remembered.  He  was  born  in  London,  in  1790, 
spent  a  long  and  outwardly  uneventful  life  there  among  warm  friends  and  admirers,  and 
there  died,  October  4,  1874. 

The  air  of  this  song  was  composed  by  a  singular  musical  character,  who  went  to  Lon- 
don in  1830,  and  became  very  intimate  with  Procter.  This  was  SIGISMOND  NEUKOMM,  Chev- 
alier, a  German  composer,  born  at  Salzburg,  July  10,  1778.  He  was  musically  educated 
by  Joseph  Haydn,  who  was  his  relative.  He  had  opportunities  for  study  and  travel,  and 
became  so  well-informed  as  to  receive,  among  his  friends,  the  nick-name  of  "  Cyclopaedia." 
At  the  house  of  Ignatz  Moscheles,  in  London,  Neukomm  and  Mendelssohn  met  frequently. 
Moscheles,  in  his  diary,  tells  us,  that,  although  they  became  friendly,  their  mutual  appre- 
ciation was  confined  to  the  social  virtues ;  for  Neukomm  thought  Mendelssohn  "  too  im- 
petuous, noisy,  and  lavish  in  the  use  of  wind  instruments,  too  exaggerated  in  his  tempo,  and 
too  restless  in  his  playing;"  while  the  glorious  young  musical  genius,  would  turn  impa- 
tiently on  his  heel,  exclaiming,  "  If  only  that  excellent  man,  Neukomm,  would  write  better 
music !  He  speaks  so  ably,  his  language  and  letters  are  so  choice,  and  yet  his  music — 
how  commonplace ! " 

Chorley,  in  his  musical  recollections,  gives  us  a  picture  which  makes  us  feel  that  Men- 
delssohn's judgment  was  far  too  lenient.  He  says :  "Of  all  the  men  of  talent  I  have  ever 
known,  Chevalier  Neukomm  was  the  most  deliberate  in  turning  to  account  every  gift,  every 
talent,  every  creature-comfort  to  be  procured  from  others ;  withal,  shrewd,  pleasant,  uni- 
versally educated  beyond  the  generality  of  musical  composers  of  his  period.  A  man  who 
had  been  largely  'knocked  about,'  and  had  been  hardened  into  the  habit  or  duty  of  knock- 
ing any  one  whom  he  could  fascinate  into  believing  in  him.  Never  was  any  man  more 
adroit  in  catering  for  his  own  comforts — in  administering  vicarious  benevolence.  Once 
having  gained  entrance  into  a  house,  he  remained  there,  with  a  possession  of  self-posses- 
sion the  like  of  which  I  have  never  seen.  There  was  no  possibility  of  dislodging  him,  save 
at  his  own  deliberate  will  and  pleasure.  He  would  have  hours  and  usages  regulated 
in  conformity  with  his  own  tastes ;  and  these  were  more  regulated  by.  individual  whimsy 
than  universal  convenience.  He  must  dine  at  one  particular  hour — at  no  other.  Having 
embraced  homo3opathy  to  its  fullest  extent,  he  would  have  his  own  dinner  expressly  made 
and  provided.  The  light  must  be  regulated  to  suit  his  eyes — the  temperature  to  n't  his 


210 


OUR    FAMILIAR    UONGX. 


eudurance.  But,  as  rarely  tails  to  be  the  case,  iu  this  world  of  shy  or  sycophantic  persons, 
he  compelled  obedience  to  his  decrees ;  and,  on  the  strength  of  a  slender  musical  talent,  a 
smooth,  diplomatic  manner,  and  some  small  insight  into  other  worlds  than  his  own,  he 
maintained  a  place,  in  its  lesser  sphere,  as  astounding  and  autocratic  as  that  of  the  great 
Samuel  Johnson,  when  he  ruled  the  household  of  the  Thrales  with  a  rod  of  iron.  Neukoinm 
hail  no  artistic  vigor  or  skill  to  insure  a  lasting  popularity  for  his  music.  It  has  past,  and 
gone  to  the  limbo  of  oblivion.  Yet,  for  some  five  years  he  held  a  first  place  in  England 
and  was  in  honored  request  at  every  provincial  music-meeting.  He  was  at  Manchester. 
at  Derby,  where,  I  think,  his  oratorio  of  'Mount  Sinai'  was  produced;  most  prominent  at 
Birmingham,  for  which  he  wrote  his  unsuccessful  'David.'*  I  question  whether  a  note  of 
his  music  lives  in  any  man's  recollection,  unless  it  be  'The  Sea,'  to  the  spirited  and  stirring 
words  of  Barry  Cornwall.  This  song  made  at  once  a  striking  mark  on  the  public  ear  and 
heart  The  spirited  setting  bore  out  the  spirited  words;  and  the  spirited  singing  and  say- 
ing of  both,  by  Mr.  Henry  Phillips,  had  no  small  share  in  the  brilliant  success." 
Neukomm  became  partially  blind  in  his  later  years,  and  died  in  Paris,  April  3,  1858. 

Mr.  Phillips,  in  his  " Recollections,"  says:  ''Neukomm  sent  me  a  note,  saying  he  had 
composed  a  song  for  me — would  I  come  to  his  apartments  and  hear  it?  He  was  then  an 
attach^  of  the  French  Ambassador,  who  resided  iu  Portland  Place.  I  accordingly  went, 
was  very  kindly  and  politely  received;  he  sat  down  to  his  pianoforte  and  played,  and  in  his 
way  sang,  the  song.  I  was  unable  to  make  any  remark  upon  it;  for  I  was  anything  but 
pleased,  and  candidly  confess  I  thought  he  had  written  it  to  insult  me.  I  brought  the 
manuscript  home,  and  on  singing  it  over  was  strengthened  in  my  former  opinion.  The 
more  I  tried  it,  the  more  displeased  I  was.  I  felt,  however,  that  I  was  bound  to  sing  it ;  I 
could  not  again  refuse  his  offer.  So  it  was  scored  for  the  orchestra,  and  I  was  to  intro- 
duce it  at  a  grand  morning  concert,  given  by  Nicholson,  at  the  Italian  Opera  Concert-Room. 
I  went  very  downcast,  and  felt  assured  that  I  should  be  hissed  out  of  the  orchestra.  This 
much-dreaded  song  was  '  The  sea,  the  sea,  the  open  sea.'  The  orchestra  led  off  the 
long  symphony  which  precedes  the  air.  In  an  instant  I  heard  the  master  hand  over  the 
score ;  I  felt  suddenly  inspired,  sang  it  with  all  my  energy,  and  gained  a  vociferous  encore. 
The  whole  conversation  of  the  day  was  the  magnificent  song  I  had  just  sung.  My  friend, 
Mori,  who  led  the  band,  asked  me  if  I  thought  he  could  obtain  it  for  ten  guineas.  I  told 
him  I  did  not  think  five  tens  would  purchase  it.  '  Well,'  said  he,  '  I'll  think  of  it.'  He  did ; 
and  while  he  was  thinking,  Mr.  Frederick  Beale  paid  Neukomm  a  visit,  in  anxious  hope  of 
obtaining  the  song,  while  Addison  stood  watching  from  the  first-floor  window  over  the  shop 
in  Regent  street,  for  Beale's  return.  Presently  he  caught  sight  of  Mm,  when  Beale  waved 
the  manuscript  triumphantly  in  the  air;  it  was  theirs,  and  realized  a  fortune.  I  believe 
they  got  it  for  fifty  guineas." 


•  In  the  United  States,  it  was  remarkably  successful. 


THE   NBA. 


Ill 


Z L_ ZJ> : 


., — IT*— wzT], TT       , 
— 0 — P— E— J4-  - .. 

•0  \- r  EE* 


blue,       the  fresh,      the      ev      -     er   free,         the     ev       -     er,     ev    -  er  free! 


1 

{ 


-T *:_* 


+•_•£•  •*- 

i — t — t— 


Without      a     mark,     with  -  out     a 


F^P3ffi±f 

i — j; L-H'  i     i     1  = 


-* 0-0-0 * 


*S-=£i£=£=-l=M—^S==3$^ 

t_|i— — f — f — p 1 _ —  i—f i^S^ — i H»^^ 

^-- '  !  '    't^r-r|j:^^^^=^g 


fp 


3= 


bound,        It     run-neth  the    earth's        wide    re    -  gions  round. 


#5 


it 


ifzE^E^lIz      ESE; 
— *  ^-t 


plays 


withthe       clouds, 


it       mocks  ..........       the      skies, 


Or 


— ^p^n — -r— - — — ^          ~~^^ — T~~  ~x^i    —       i  »"'"" —     T~        i*a*^^^H  "I 

;}Edg=Jg^EJ 


T-^  r^ 


_ 

jir,.^  —  zpiMii^r  _zz'q=^;T=^=zi=q^c=i==r==qi— 

=if5rE          -^—     EEEEfcEEizS    =£-*-•  --  *-^^ 

*—  3-ty-  --  -f±=t==f=  t  --  f=       _f_^*_,_! 


like  a     era   «  died      crea    -   ture  lies,       Or       like      a       era    -     died      crea    -      ture 


OUR   FAMILIAR   SONGS. 


lies. 


J 


f 


=^=£3EEE3==p^E  _q£ 

*zi2_ .,_. 1 ,_r,-__ 


I'm  on     the  Sea! 


I'm  on       the  Sea! 


— •          « 


3^F=^^ 


/ 


/ 


I         I 


am    where    I     would    ev    -     er     be,  With  the    blue       a  -  bove,  and  the     blue       be  -  low,    And 


^=efe 


--S S- 


si    -       lence  where    -so     -    e'er I       go.  If      a       storm ^. should 


\  ~ 


tztate:  -\f. 


H — ' — * — ] 
'*=*=3=- 


:=3tz=  ^i  DH 


and     a       -      wake the  deep, 


What 


»v 


/ 


THE   SEA. 


113 


I        shall     ride     and   sleep. 


-0 0 — 0 

: T  i 


_^_ , ^ L_ ^        —  .  .  ,L-.-*^^T ,  ^^jX.  .  J. [_ n .-,1 


mat-ter?  what  mat  -  ter? 

(      I 


/ 


I      shall    ride     and     sleep. 


IzEEJiSzf^^ 


Boatswain'swhistle. 


I  love,  Oh  how  I  love  to  ride 
On  the  fierce,  foaming,  bursting  tide  ! 
When  every  mad  wave  drowns  the  moon, 
Or  whistles  aloft  his  tempest  tune, 
And  tells  how  goeth  the  world  below, 
And  why  the  sou'-west  blast  doth  blow  ! 
I  never  was  on  the  dull,  tame  shore, 
But  I  loved  the  great  sea  more  and  more, 
A.nd  backward  flew  to  her  billowy  breast, 
Like  a  bird  that  seeketh  its  mother's  nest ; 
And  a  mother  she  was,  and  is  to  me, 
For  I  was  born  on  the  open  sea. 


The  waves  were  white,  and  red  the  morn, 

In  the  noisy  hour  when  I  was  born  ; 

And  the  whale  it  whistled,  the  porpoise  rolled, 

And  the  dolphins  bared  their  backs  of  gold ; 

And  never  was  heard  such  an  outcry  wild 

As  welcomed  to  life  the  Ocean  child. 

I  have  lived,  since  then,  in  calm  and  strife, 

Full  fifty  summers  a  sailor's  life, 

With  wealth  to  spend,  and  a  power  to  range, 

But  never  have  sought  or  sighed  for  change: 

And  Death,  whenever  he  come  to  me, 

Shall  come  on  the  wide,  unbounded  sea. 


(8) 


114 


OUR    FAMILIAR    SONGS. 

BARNEY    BUNTLINE. 


THK  delightfully  absurd  song  of  "  Barney  Buntline"  was  written  by  WILLIAM  Pin, 
Esq.,  of  the  British  navy.  He  was  master-attendant  at  Jamaica  Dock-yard,  and  was  after- 
ward stationed  at  Malta,  where  he  died  in  1840.  The  air  is  an  old  English  one,  to  which 
these  words  were  set  by  JOHN  DAVY,  composer  of  the  famous  air,  "  Bay  of  Biscay." 


Harmonized  by  Edward  S.  Gumming*. 


One      night  came    on       a        bur  -  ri  -  cane,    the       sea       was    moun-tains    roll  -    ing,  When 


-9-  £ 


Bar-    ney      Bunt  -  Hue    turn'd    liU       quid,    and       said       to       Bil     -    ly       Bow -ling:  "A 


-0-          +-          -f-          •»-•»-       _  •*!__*•___* 

-  _  -  _  -  --    -  L  -     - 


===^  ^)~^—  =ii=J=: 

r£ 1  , f( « J- « 0 « 1 ? « J 

— * * ^—  — I 1 —  —  *—  — * —  — * * *— ~   0          *—l—9— 


strong     sou'-  wes  -    tier's    blow   -  ing,     Bill,       O       can't     you       hear       it       roar    now;  God 

'      — * —  — ^ -f —  —  |     f *•  f  f — 


•         S 


-jf-t  n— 

K— 

—  fc  — 

—  N  • 

—  

k>  w 

^    1    ,    k. 

N  — 

^  — 

fcfr— 

£iz_    t 

^P  — 

P  — 

~f~ 

i"  —  i~~    i  '    i^  3~    J      ?~  '  <    '  *~^ 

f 

*~ 

*            »            99            9            jt            f            9 
/ 

r 

help 

'em, 

how 

1 

pit  - 

i.>         all 

un    -  hap 

-  py 

folks 

a    - 

shore, 

now  !" 

^.I~f~ 

tFJ't      m 

—  »  — 

—  0  — 

-£= 

—  0  — 

=£_. 

—  »  •- 

-_;_[-*- 

4 

*- 
1  

—  *  
—  i  

/5- 

-j=l= 

Szf- 

i  — 
—  *  — 

5 

-V     —  ^ 

^-^  i-» 

0  
1   

0  

—  •  — 

« 
—  i  

-—  V  

CHORUS. 


Bow,   wow,    wow, 


rum  -  li       id    -  dy,    rum  -    ti        id   -    dy.    Bow,  wow,    wow. 


F 


*— =£;-=$— ii=z: 


One  night  came  on  a  hurricane,  the  sea  was  moun- 
tains rolling, 

When  Barney  Buntline  turned  his  quid,  and  said 
to  Billy  Bowling : 

"  A  strong  sou'-wester's  blowing,  Bill,  O  can't  you 
you  hear  it  roar  now; 

God  help  'em,  how  I    pities   all   unhappy  folks 
ashore,  now! 

Bow,  wow,  wow,  &c. 


"  Fool-hardy  chaps  as  lives  in  towns,  what  danger 

they  are  all  in  ! 
And  now  they're  quaking  in  their  beds  for  fear 

the  roof  should  fall  in. 
Poor  creatures,  how  they  envies  us,  and  wishes, 

I've  a  notion, 
For  our  good  luck  in  such  a  storm  to  be  upon 

the  ocean. 

Bow,  wow,  wow,  &c. 


BARNEY  BUNT  LINE. 


"  Then,  as  to  them  kept  out  all  day  on  business 

from  their  houses, 
And,  late  at  night,  are  walking  home  to  cheer 

their  babes  and  spouses, 
While  you  and  I  upon  the  deck  are  comfortably 


My  eye,  what  tiles  and  chimney  pots  about  their 
heads  are  flying  ! 

Bow,  wow,  wow,  &c. 


"  And  often  have  we  seamen  heard  how  men  are 

killed  and  undone, 
By  overturns  in  carriages,  and  thieves,  and  fires 

in  London ; 
We've  heard  what  risks  all  landsmen  run,  from 

noblemen  to  tailors, 
So  Bill,  let  us  thank  Providence,  that  you  and  I 

are  sailors." 

Bow,  wow,  wow,  &c. 


THE  WHITE  SQUALL. 

THE  words  of  "  The  White  Squall"  were  written  by  Captain  JOHNS,  of  the  Marines, 
British  navy,  and  the  air  was  made  by  GEORGE  A.  BARKER.  The  latter  was  a  well-known 
English  musician,  and  was  first  tenor  in  the  Princess'  Theatre,  London,  thirty  years  ago. 
He  died  in  Ley  church,  in  1877. 


1.  The        sea... 

2.  They    near'd 


was 
the 


bright and   the    bark  rode 

laud wherein     beau     -       ty 


well,, 
smiles,. 


The 
The 


•*• ^     m  ^^         -0- s      *-        — -         •*• '     -f^Z^     -0-  ^^s     -0-       -0- 

u          J_    _j J J_  J — __j —    J^ J 

i    ^  C       "~  ^**^ —        — ._ . — k. k,— . '-±. k..-_ . 


— -*.    *  )t*  ^*    '-^-*- 

breeztT     bore   the       tone of    the      ves     -    per      bell!        .  'Twas  a     gal    -      lant 

sun       -       -       ny       shore  of    the      Gre    -    cian     Isles.  All  thought    of 


/r 


-  _        __  ___  --  —  -  _  —  _  - 

Y-%-  *>       ---  :—  -;?=:S—  }-•-'- 


6 — i— ==} 

lESE^l 


bark with        crew  as 

home,  of  that  wel    -    come 


brave 
dear 


As       ev    -       er 
Which  soon     should 


launch'd 
greet 


116 


OUR   FAMILIAR   SONGS. 


EEJEE      ,    ,    •~pv FIF^' 


V--    /< 

heav       -    ing          wave,  As  ev       -       er  launch'd on    the    heav 

wan    -     d'rerV         ear, Which  soon       should      greet each  wan 


^ —       I-^*"^    ~^X —         .X  -  \ 

^zzisB^^pinii^^:  i:^<_: 


I~. —     — .      . — i — -— ~~-- — 
==*px=f=±*=r^*-  +—*^+==3=jp=r-  :j^=ip=g=^= 
^     ^      if:—     : p=tzz_   _^ — ^ — '>_!  =t^=^-^_ 


each 


wave,....     She    shone  in    the      light....       of     de  -  clin     -    ing  day And  eac 

ear And      in  fan  -  cy     join'd....  the     so      -     cial  throng,        In    the 


,__| 1 ,_| 


-f — ?- 


/ 


=iE3=^=; 

E?Ei3-ZE^ 


3=^=3 


, 


'•* 


was  set.  And  each    heart      was       gay;    She shoue in  the 

res    -       tive  dance          And    the    joy    -    ous        song,    And in  fan-cy 


ing    day ,".7"...  And  each    sail         was  set and  each 

cial  throng In     the     fes     -    tive         dance and  the 


.  de-clin 

Join'd —         the  so 


=£§E?fi:^|      EfeS^^^^eE  Ej^Eifez^E 

— — -— . *--*-m-l.    _  — t- • • T~^—  T = — I — i 1 

^^  — — ^^^ — i — \-9-L cnz 


heart       was 
so    -      cial 


THE    WHITE  SQUALL. 


117 


gay.  • 
song. 


m   - ^ 


KZ==£= 


zz^ii^r-  ==i=q=          ^—^1=^=1-^ 

^:  =ir=    =j-^^j:^^=j=: 


m 


•ff*t — i 


A       white        cloud  glides through  the      a        -      zure 


sky,. 


What 


b=__,_^_^_5_?_l=a_^  L_^__*_      :fc_,_^_^_SS~:-j= 


that        wild 


des  -pair 


ing 


cry? 


-if— 


'       J 


*: 


11  Andante  con  espressione.  ~ — =— 

Fare-  well !  the  vision'd  scenes   of    home,  Fare  -  well,      tl 


-     -^ 

Fare  -  well,      the   vision'd  scenes   of 


-s 


g^=^*=^g=^=^==^^:fe*=b£:-        =fer-£ 
:±^==F=  =P=     =7=1      ±f=  =z=|rz=i=?=|= 


f==--F^  =* 


a 


4fc= 


Recit.         Ardito. 


K=2= 


home! 


That  cry      is    "  Help ! "  where  no  help    can  come,        That  cry  is 


1 


~« — 


Ttt" 


stacc. 


r- 


lib 


OUJi   FAMILIAR   SONGS. 

T 


eg 


help,       where     no  help can    come; 


Fare    -    well,     the       vis   -  ion'd 


£= 


s* 


iE 


Fare  -  well,      the  vis  -  fon'd  scenes  of  home. 


or    the    white       squall  rides on  the     surg       -    ing  wave,  And  the 


I 


**      ^      ^r*      5:*        ^:*      5^      ^*      ^* 


& 


white        gquall  rides  on the       surg       -    ing  wave, And  the 


^EE}E^EE5E-f=JE£=^E=^lE^  =£-?— H 
^-  =^=  ^P 


THE    WHITE  SQUALL. 


119 


bark 


gulph'd  in         an          o       -     cean's  grave, 


— * 0- 

For  the 


I — S — ' — * — I — • 

_p«  -^-        _        -^. 

•*•  -*• 


white  squall    rides        on       the  surg       -    ing  wave. And  the   bark         is 


E 


•0—i 0- 


zN— -js-i-j 


5-* — 9~*-T- 


gulph'd      in          an       o    -    cean's       grave,  For   the    white         squall         rides         on    the 


>  f-1] «U— p^ 1s  >    «— F 


surg'       -        ing  wave,         And       the      bark....          is gulph'd 


y 


^ 


I  ~  I 

I  =3  .  J        j^'T^ >.     I—     1T1 


tfcfcfc 


I ! ' — \j — I — i i 


E^ 


an          o 


cean's 


grave, 


""ISTfl ' ' 1 1  i  >~ -1 ' — 1 1 ^  ^         ^ ^ — 

-"ft-— n» — » — » — * — * — » — — 0 — 0 — *— — S — «— * — l- 

r-jf — iffl — S~5 — l^g^^* — T      j     j^j — ~f — * — * — 4— -•— -»— g— « — 0.     0  ?     * — f-  g  •  •  r — F — 

F^^1 


-:I 


120 


OUK    FAMILIAR    So 


-j          -= — J^d s — V  „     f— -^— -»— •  "H — 3 

P  ~^-"^fc3t=M= 


cean's  grave!. 


-*_*!! — *_* — *— 1  -=t "•«iBF- 

I       i       i  — —        — J  -i— I 


^¥=rrr=rT;iT?^p^=^P::=*I=i>:=:1=  ^=f  ^=  ^P^^  =i^^z: 

=fafcr ^— fe  ^E-l 

-j-i-t  -+-+-*      -+-0-9-  -*•-*•-••     -*•-*--*•-*  -*• ' 

•*•  •  •*•  •        1*-. 

^a=^E^f^  EEI-I 

=I=f==    zzt^SE1 


THE     STORM. 

THE  authorship  of  this  song  has  been  disputed.  GEORGE  ALEXANDER  STEVENS  was 
born  in  London,  England,  but  the  exact  date  is  not  known.  He  was  an  actor  of  no  great 
power,  and  between  poor  playing  and  hard  drinking,  his  finances  were  in  a  not  very  flourish- 
ing condition,  when  he  hit  upon  a  scheme  for  repairing  them.  He  wrote  an  amazingly  funny 
mixture  of  wit  and  nonsense,  entitled  it  "  A  Lecture  on  Heads,"  and  gave  it  to  a  friend  to 
deliver.  As  might  have  been  expected,  the  friend  failed  to  catch  the  fine  points  of  the 
composition,  and  the  "heads"  fell  as  if  severed  on  the  block.  Stevens  picked  them  up 
and  stuck  them  on  again,  for  a  second  round.  Presto !  all  the  features  were  in  their  right 
plares,  and  every  pun  was  as  plain  as  the  nose  on  a  man's  face.  The  lecture  was  an  im- 
mense success,  and  became  popular  at  once.  Stevens  delivered  it  amid  "unbounded  en- 
thusiasm," in  Great  Britain  and  Ireland,  and  then  brought  it  over  to  delight  our  staid 
ancestors  on  this- side  of  the  water.  On  going  back  to  England,  he  attempted  to  lengthen 
out  the  joke  by  adding  "half-lengths,"  and  "whole-lengths,"  but  an  over-drawn  witticism 
is  a  dismal  thing,  and  nobody  laughed  with  the  disappointed  comedian.  The  following  is 
an  extract  from  a  letter  which  he  wrote  while  lying,  for  debt,  in  Yarmouth  jail : 

u  The  week's  eating  finishes  my  last  waistcoat ;  and  next  I  must  atone  for  my  errors 
on  bread  and  water.  A  wig  has  fed  me  two  days ;  the  trimming  of  a  waistcoat  as  long ;  a 
pair  of  velvet  breeches  paid  my  washerwoman ;  a  ruffle  shirt  has  found  me  in  shaving. 


THE   STORM, 


121 


Hy  coats  I  swallowed  by  degrees ;  the  sleeves  I  breakfasted  upou  for  two  weeks ;  the 
body,  skirts,  &c.,  served  ine  for  dinner  two  months  j  rny  silk  stockings  have  paid  my  lodg- 
ings, and  two  pair  of  new  pumps  enabled  me  to  smoke  several  pipes.  It  is  incredible 
how  my  appetite  (barometer-like)  rises  in  proportion  as  my  necessities  make  their  ter- 
rible advances.  I  here  could  say  something  droll  about  a  stomach ;  but  it's  ill  jesting  with 
edged  tools,  and  1  am  sure  that  is  the  sharpest  thing  about  me." 

The  wonder  of  his  composing  so  fine  a  lyric  as  "The  Storm,"  has  led  to  a  doubt 
whether  he  really  did  do  it ;  but,  the  truth  is,  that  he  wrote  other  songs  so  famous  in  their 
day,  that  they  were  printed  by  various  booksellers,  without  his  consent,  and  very  much  to 
his  disadvantage.  "The  Storm"  has  been  attributed  to  no  one  else  except  Falconer, 
author  of  "  The  Shipwreck,"  and  the  only  ground  of  such  a  claim  was,  that  he  might  have 
done  it — that  it  was  somewhat  in  his  line.  But  Falconer  is  neither  lyrical  nor  spirited,  and 
the  picturesqueness  of  the  song  makes  all  but  certain  the  claim  of  the  actor-poet. 

Stevens  lived  in  an  age  of  deep  drinking ;  and  as  the  bowl  was  the  especial  iuspirer  of 
his  verse,  so  it  was  the  principal  receiver  of  its  praises.  After  several  other  unsuccessful 
attempts,  he  returned  to  the  delivery  of  "  Heads,"  which  he  was  finally  able  to  sell  for 
money  enough  to  pay  for  the  last  carousals  of  his  life,  which  ended  miserably  in  1784. 

The  original  air  to  which  "The  Storm"  is  set  was  called,  with  queer  appropriate- 
ness to  the  author's  state,  "  Welcome,  brother  debtor."  It  appeared  in  a  collection  of 
songs  called  "Calliope,"  published  in  1730.  Incledon,  the  English  vocalist,  sang  "The 
Storm  "  in  this  country  with  great  effect. 


1.  Cease,    rude    Bo    -    ivas,    blust'ring       rail    -     er!        List,        ye        land    -    men,     all 


broth  -er         sai    -    lor     Sing    the       dan  -  gers        of     the 


From  bounding   bil    -    lows    first   in       mo  -    tion,  When  the      dis   -    tant   whirlwinds 

&i 


To    the    tern    -    pest   trou  -  bled    o    -   cean,  Where  the  seas      con  -  tend  with  skies. 


122 


•  il'Il   FAMILIAR  SONGS. 


Hark  !  the  boatswain  hoarsely  bawling, — 

By  topsail  sheets  and  haulyards  stand, 
Down  top-gallants  quick  be  hauling, 

Down  your  staysails,  —  hand,  boys,  hand  ! 
Now  it  freshens,  set  the  braces, 

Quick  the  topsail-sheets  let  go ; 
Luff,  boys,  luff,  don't  make  wry  faces, 

Up  your  topsails  nimbly  clew. 

Now  all  you  at  home  in  safety, 

Sheltered  from  the  howling  storm, 
Tasting  joys  by  Heaven  vouchsafed  ye, 

Of  our  state  vain  notions  form. 
Round  us  roars  the  tempest  louder, 

Think  what  fear  our  mind  enthralls ! 
Harder  yet  it  blows,  still  harder, 

Now  again  the  boatswain  calls. 

The  topsail-yards  point  to  the  wind,  boys, 
See  all  clear  to  reef  each  course  — 

Let  tlie  foresheet  go  —  don't  mind,  boys, 
Though  the  weather  should  be  worse. 

O 

Fore  and  aft  the  sprit-sail  yard  get, 
Reef  the  mizzen — see  all  clear  — 

Hand  up,  each  preventer-brace  set  — 
Man  the  foreyards  —  cheer,  lads,  cheer! 

Now  the  awful  thunder's  rolling, 

Peal  on  peal  contending  clash  ; 
On  our  heads  fierce  rain  falls  pouring, 

In  our  eyes  blue  lightnings  flash  : 
One  wide  water  all  around  us, 

All  above  us  one  black  sky ; 
Different  deaths  at  once  surround  us, 

Hark!  what  means  that  dreadful  cry? 


The  foremast's  gone !  cries  every  tongue,  out 

O'er  the  lee,  twelve  feet  'bove  deck  ; 
A  leak  beneath  the  chest-tree's  sprung  out  — 

Call  all  hands  to  clear  the  wreck. 
Quick,  the  lanyards  cut  to  pieces  — 

Come,  my  hearts,  be  stout  and  bold ! 
Plumb  the  well  — the  leak  increases  — 

Four  feet  water  in  the  hold ! 

While  o'er  the  ship  wild  waves  are  beating, 

We  for  our  wives  and  children  mourn; 
Alas,  from  hence  there's  no  retreating ! 

Alas,  to  them,  there's  no  return ! 
Still  the  danger  grows  upon  us, 

Wild  confusion  reigns  below ; 
Heaven  have  mercy  here  upon  us, 

For  only  that  can  save  us  now. 

O'er  the  lee-beam  is  the  land,  boys  — 

Let  the  guns  o'erboard  be  thrown  — 
To  the  pump,  come,  every  hand,  boys, 

See,  our  mizzenmast  is  gone. 
The  leak  we've  found,  it  cannot  pour  fast, 

We've  lightened  her  a  foot  or  more  ; 
Up  and  rig  a  jury  foremast —  [shore. 

She    rights!  —  she  rights!  —  boys,    wear  off 

Now  once  more  on  joys  we're  thinking, 

Since  kind  Heaven  has  spared  our  lives, 
Come,  the  can,  boys,  let's  be  drinking 

To  our  sweethearts  and  our  wives : 
Fill  it  up,  about  ship  wheel  it, 

Close  to  the  lips  a  brimmer  join ;  — 
Where's  the  tempest  now,  who  feels  it? 

None  —  our  danger's  drowned  in  wine. 


THE   MINUTE  GUN   AT  SEA. 

THE  words  of  this  song  were  written  by  K.  S.  SHARPE,  an  English  song- writer,  who  was 
bora  in  1776,  and  died  in  1822.  The  music  was  made  by  M.  P.  KING,  a  favorite  English 
composer,  who  began  writing  music  early  in  this  century.  He  wrote  operas,  oratorios, 
etc.,  and  composed  the  music  for  Arnold's  "  Up  All  Night,"  in  which  this  song  was  em- 
bodied as  ;v  duet.  His  sons  were  both  noted  as  teachers  of  music,  and  performers  on  the 
organ  and  pianoforte.  They  came  to  this  country  when  young,  lived  in  New  York  City  for 
many  years,  and  died  there  about  twenty-five  years  ago.  The  eldest  was  Charles  King, 
who  arranged  numerous  songs,  glees,  etc.  The  younger  brother,  W.  A.  King,  was  for 
many  years  organist  and  conductor  of  music  in  Grace  Church,  and  was  deemed  the  finest 
organist  in  New  York.  He  also  conducted  and  arranged  at  the  fashionable  concerts  of 
thirty  years  ago ;  was  distinguished  as  an  accompanist,  and  as  a  solo  performer  on  the 
pianoforte.  His  "Grace  Church  Collection  of  Sacred  Music"  was  called  the  most  merito- 
rious publication  of  the  kind  that  was  ever  issued  in  this  country. 


THE   MINUTE    GUN  AT   SEA. 


1st  Voice. 


T\ 

-N-T • — 


m 


Let  him  who     sighs     iu        sad  -    ness  here,    re  -  joice      and  know    :i        friend    is          near. 
2d  Voice.  /Tx 

— ^-i  -•— — fr — F~~'£~pq~  —  qr^r=  — •— \~fs-       9  ~r — ' — 


AYhat  thrill-ing  sounds  are  those    I      hear!      What   be  -  ing  comes      the    gloom       to       cheer? 
Moderate. 


Moderate.  *-»i^.  ,.        i****!  lf-\ 

u_4f  _  K S      I I       *     I P"  _  I     S \^        -fr 

pfcJEaEE^^^.        !  |i!SE      =^1 1—  =|^=^=?=:=  -E3=£ 

~ i— *-*-*-^r—. jr*-* f '-         -«-!-» * *-   -*- 

1.  AVhen    in      the  storm    on       Al    -    bion's  coast  The    night  -  watch    guards    his 

p»^  ^^  ***^ 


r- 

=3i= 


<—+ 


^2~  ==T=  — ,=3- 

fcEEfc        =g=        — *~  nn:=:  —I q— |r*-- — *- 

' j; ; ^     izj _g a 0 ; -i-($i <>     '   <     « *— ' 

I  ff  I 

wea    -        ry    post,      From  thoughts  of      dan  -  ger      free ; 

-iS^fc: 


He  marks    some  ves  -  sel's 


Ti-fl— *d: 
EO-«z? 


fe_^^ 


f=±-t 


n — u   •"•  _E — 


z=Jz 


r^* — 


PI— |^t 


dusk  -  y      form,  And    hears,      a  -  mid     the  howl  -  ing    storm,       The   minute    gun      at 


r- 


sea.  The      min  -  ute       gun        at        sea.  And      hears,        a  -   mid        the 

£±~J 


~S=i=      — *-r~  -ihiZT L  [I 


howl       -       ing  storm,  The       min  -  ute  gun  at  sea. 

:^~  C         0-"  "DZZIuIZ  f~~         ZZuHrj"~T  ^  ll 

I  i  ,1  ^ Jj 


I  y  .     -0 

P C  T  i 

I 1 


?3EEE 


-V 


1 — 

— — * — 


2.    Swift     on      the  shore      a        har    -   dy       few,  The     life    -  boat       man      with     a 


-0-1- 0 0— 0—,—0    -          *•  -'- 


124 


OUR    FAMILIAR   SOS  as. 


gallant, gallant  crew,         And   dare      the  dang'rous    wave; 


f^^3^3E|£^^^^|^i 


Thro'   the  wild  surf    they 

n  .    * 


=6 


m 


u  s 


r 


i     \, 

cleave  their    way;  Lost       in      the    foam,  nor  know  dis  -  may,    Forfheygo    the  crew   to 


-1- 


*:=* * — 


I        I 


A 


-*-T— 


L 


save ;  For  they  go       the     crew       to      save ; 

^^=^=^{=     JEEEE  ^{^=^{^E=£=g: 


in      the    foam,      nor 


j L_t_  JL  -j         ^ 

EJE  ElIE::*=f=jIy:=:===^==a~ j^:p^=     ===  =gj 


know     dis    -      may,       For     they       go 


the    crew  to  save. 


H tj— T—  nbZHT" 


]] 


Allegretto. 
Solo. 


^^^J{^^E    zJ" 


Chorus.  ^ 


I 


But    Oh,  what  rap  -  ture    fills  each  breast  Of  the  hope  -  less  crew  of  the     ship  distress'd;  Then, 

Tenor  Solo. 


*-—fe *  -,-» « P — W-r-P P K r  -i -, 

E 


land-ed   safe,  what  joys  to    tell.    Of  all    the  dan-gers  that  be  -  fell ;  Then  is  heard  no  more  By  the 
-     ^  '     -,_*_  *•••.•*,..*..       .     /l-i  ad  lib. 


gBfifcrHr--^ 

n — ^-  jj     ij j? 


U— U 


_*___---r 


BLA  CK-E  YED    a  US  AN. 


125 


BLACK-EYED    SUSAN, 
i 

ALTHOUGH  JOHN  GAY  was  the  intimate  friend  of  Pope  and  Swift,  and  wrote  the  best 
poetical  fables  in  our  language,  he  will  be  longest  remembered  by  his  few  songs,  the  most 
famous  of  which  is  "  Black-eyed  Susan."  He  was  born  in  Devonshire,  England,  in  1688. 
He  was  apprenticed  to  a  silk-mercer,  hated  the  business,  escaped  from  it  to  follow  his  lit- 
erary inclinations,  and  made  friends  who  encouraged  and  assisted  him.  His  "  Beggar's 
Opera,"  which  had  a  first  run  of  sixty-two  nights,  was  immensely  popular  in  city  and 
country,  and  is  still  a  favorite  for  its  sweet  songs.  It  was  brought  out  at  Lincoln's  Inn 
Fields,  under  the  management  of  Mr.  Rich  ;  and  the  joke  was  bandied  about,  that  " l  The 
Beggar's  Opera'  had  made  Gay  rich,  and  Rich  gay."  Its  success  gave  rise  to  the  English 
opera,  which  from  that  time  disputed  the  stage  with  the  Italian.  Gay  wrote  a  continua- 
tion of  the  "Beggar's  Opera,"  in  which  he  transferred  his  characters  to  America-;  but  the 
Lord  Chamberlain  refused  to  allow  it  to  be  played.  He  published  it,  and  the  notoriety 
which  its  attempted  suppression  gave,  caused  him  to  realize  more  money  than  its  success- 
ful representation  would  have  been  likely  to.  The  Duchess  of  Marlborough  gave  two  hun- 
dred and  forty  dollars  for  a  single  copy  of  it.  Gay  died  suddenly,  December  4,  1732. 
Upon  Pope's  letter  to  Swift,  announcing  the  event,  Swift  wrote :  "  Received  December  15, 
but  not  read  until  the  20th,  by  an  impulse  foreboding  some  misfortune."  Pope  wrote  of 
Gay: 

"  Of  manners  gentle,  of  affections  mild ; 
In  wit  a  man,  simplicity  a  child." 

The  ballad  of  "  Black-eyed  Susan"  was  magnificently  set  to  a  re-arranged  old  English 
ballad  air,  by  RICHARD  LEVERIDGE. 


flt^N      J      J 

r  ^  ^  zJ*  ^ 

"f  ^  ti^    Js 

J   f  h 

\          N 

W1A_J 

1.  All       in       the 
2.  Wil  -  Ham    was 

Downs     the     fleet    was 
high        up   -   on      the 

!S           |N 

moor'd,   The  stream  -  ers 
yard,   Rock'd  by      the 

1  O1  J.'   ^ 

wav  -  ing      in 
bil  -  lows      to 

—  i  J5  —  ' 

the 
and 

/  Q  X  ^  —  _  — 

J    „    J        ^ 

1 

^fflg  J.  

N*1    Ps     1          i 

M  x  » 

i 

PP 

3?         -* 

/^\*  c 

N                                     m 

i 

]&J*  9    t          w|                    N» 

M  ^  i  ^  

M      IS       1  J 

i-^  .  2^  

-y  —  ^~ 

-J  —  ^—     —  ^~ 

_J  X  f 

1 

-ft r> 


t-t -C_c  irtffip 


wind,  When  black-ey'd    Su  -   san   came     on  board,  "  O    where  shall      I       my     true  love 

fro,  Soon     as      her    well      -      known  voice  he   heard,  He    sigh'd   and     cast     his     eyes    be  - 


* 


V 


^ 


126 


OUli   FAMILIAR    SONGS. 


'l£           *     f    ^^^=3=*--^-^—^ 

1  N  C   I    ^"1 

-^-P  VI    N     W~i=1 

S                  ^  --Eaf--/-&f~F  —  £>_^__.«L__ji_£__ji-^j--a,  —  g  —  ^—         —  i 

find?            Tell  me,  ye    jo  -vial   sail  -  ore,  tell   me      true,    If     mysweetWil-liam,  If     my  sweet 
-  low;  The    cord  slides   swift-ly    thro'    his  glow-ing  hands,  And,  quick  as  lightning,  And,  quick  as 

52  —  J  —  —A.  —  J  —     —  1—  0  —    —  0  —    —  $v  —  0  1  J  -  0  —  - 
/                                        [^            W  ^ 

«f=       ^l^^-1 

•"^ 

-Q  *  fe 

^-T-  :  — 
-  J    J  ^     x    =- 

S  X 

7  —  p-          --£  —  — 

Wil   -   liam           sails        a  -  mong          your 
light  -  ning,            on         the     deck              he 

_Q  fe  i^  

^    »     '      * 

crew?" 
stands. 

<                                                                                               "*" 

1  ^    t     *  LJ-1  ==5=3  —  |  —  i^:  —  ' 

cres.                                  dim. 

^      ••  ?~T     N      1^1 

P  —  MX   x  -f  —  =1  —  F—  3  —  sr^- 

Is   i 

i  »— 

•                          I'                   y          J1 

00                 '44- 

>.    *     ~ 

«iJ          T 

Tjr                                                                                             I^S             V              ft 

P         N         n. 

1 

(fL       ¥       1     IS                m        (•        l*     W  J 

|        K     J          2IZ^S 

hi                            !».                 Ik. 

(t)                                                       fl* 

P      N            p           pi 

W*          V 

j     j    r 

^                                             ^                                                    •  r.  7                                                       *-.  ?     ^.9* 

3.  "  Be-lievc  not      what      the    lands  -  men       say,      Who  tempt  with     doubts  thy     con  -  stant 
4.  "Oh,  Su-san,       Su   -    san,   love  -  ly        dear,       My    vows    for           ev   -  er      true      re  - 

il   Jiji    x  1^  x  

—  N*1    K  —  =1  j  

—  F^T"5  J  

^^                                         'iD-ifl 

/                                                                                  1     f^ 

\ 

(K?^  -t^i-  p**i    if        1^*1  r^  i      •* 

-S-  -#•          -*-•  — 

-fa*  r-    H 

i|=  M    „      ^  ,"r  >    r     f= 

•  —    — 

^y 

—  " 

g>  J   T-^   di    ^   C    t 

mind,  They'll  tell    thee    sail  -  ors,  when      a 
-   main;    Let     me     kiss      off     that     fall  -  ing 

1  J?         |                      |^^  [  J      J                      - 

:_[  —  [  —  U  C  J" 

-    way,       In       ev  -  'ry 
tear,      We       on   -   ly 

I_O  .   J  .1 

port      a      mis  -  tress 
part      to    meet      a   - 

(£7;  M  ^  ^  —  y  0*  ^  ft— 

nJr     '    I 

-[f~r  ,  r  ,| 

—      —  ^_jz~^ 

X  J  

BLACK-EYED  SUSAN. 


127 


find;         Yet,   yes,  bc-lieve  them  when  they  tell  thee     so,       For  thou  art    pre-sent,  For  thou  art 
-   gain;     Change    as   ye     list,  ye  winds,  my  heart  shall  be        The  faith -ful  corn-pass,  The  faith-ful 


Z  —  p—  f— 

•  —  =- 

-T  —  'T-T--  r~ 

— 

J      ., 

-^  — 

.  

frh      r 

' 

r         •                          r 

-   4 

g          I 

^ 

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pre  -  sent 
com  -  pass 

where  -  so  -  e'er               I 
that       still  points             to 

i  S  E  1 

t 

go." 

tiee." 

1  K  —  0  

p 

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dim. 

. 

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9. 

j®  •          N     ^     x. 

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1  ^  ^                                                t  T     ^.         0           0 
5.  The  boatswain    gave       the     dread  -  ful        word.     The    sails   their      swell  -  ing      bo  -  soms 

A                  v                  f.                                                                  ,N           ->                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                      ^                             ^ 

v     ^    ^ 

/r    j  i  j  i    ^ 

*  *1  fj      *1              "*• 

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IV  »"1       N* 

frn     *      *          ^ 

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p  !  «^            a 

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2        ^i 

J                                    !                             !        . 

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i)    ^t  •*•                                               •»•  •»•          -^-^  

k               ». 

V               ft                                     I 

IN                 m             \ 

[^«      S3    ^M       N* 

p«1         p      M                       V. 

rSM       [\         M                  ! 

"1s*               r 

^  J    J    —  i^- 

Jn  J       -^^ 

—  J  —  J  —       —  •  —          —  • 

M^  1  

- 


3 


spread;   No     long  -  er     must      she  stay      on     board:  They   kiss — she  sigh'd — he      hangs    his 

_K  l_^  i  N 


mm 


^^t. 


^ 


128 


OUR   FAMILIAR    SONGS. 


*•* 

head:         The     less  -  'niug     boat        un   -    will    -    ing      rows     to      laud,         "A  -  dk*u,"  she 


i 


* 


m 


ad  lib. 

-ifr 


cries,       "A   -  dieu,"    she         cries, 


aud     waves     her 


li     -     ]y 


hand. 


2E 


colla  voce. 


-*- 


X- 


All  in  the  Downs  the  fleet  was  moored, 
The  streamers  waving  in  the  wind, 

When  black-eyed  Susan  came  on  board: 
"O,  where  shall  I  my  true  love  find? 

Tell  me,  ye  jovial  sailors,  tell  me  true, 

If  my  sweet  William  sails  among  the  crew." 

William,  who  high  upon  the  yard 
Rocked  with  the  billow  to  and  fro, 

Soon  as  her  well  known  voice  he  heard, 
He  sighed,  and  cast  his  eyes  below  : 

The  cord  slides  swiftly  through  his  glowing  hands, 

And,  quick  as  lightning,  on  the  deck  he  stands. 

So  the  sweet  lark,  high  poised  in  air, 
Shuts  close  his  pinions  to  his  breast 

If  chance  his  mate's  shrill  call  he  hear, 
And  drops  at  once  into  her  nest :  — 

The  noblest  captain  in  the  British  fleet 

Might  envy  William's  lip  those  kisses  sweet 

"  O  Susan,  Susan,  lovely  dear, 

My  vows  shall  ever  true  remain ; 
Let  me  kiss  off  that  falling  tear; 

We  only  part  to  meet  again. 
Change  as  ye  list,  ye  winds ;  my  heart  shall  be 
The  faithful  compass  that  still  points  to  thee. 


"  Believe  not  what  the  landsmen  say, 

Who  tempt  with  doubts  thy  constant  mind  : 

They'll  tell  thee  sailors  when  away, 
In  every  port  a  mistress  find : 

Yes,  yes,  believe  them  when  they  tell  thee  so, 

For  thou  art  present  wheresoe'er  I  go. 

"  If  to  fair  India's  coast  we  sail, 

Thy  eyes  are  seen  in  diamonds  bright, 

Thy  breath  is  Afric's  spicy  gale, 
Thy  skin  is  ivory  so  white. 

Thus  every  beauteous  object  that  I  view, 

Wakes  in  my  soul  some  charm  of  lovely  Sue. 

"  Though  battle  call  me  from  thy  arms, 

Let  not  my  pretty  Susan  mourn  ; 
Though  cannons  roar,  yet  safe  from  harms 

William  shall  to  his  dear  return. 
Love  turns  aside  the  balls  that  round  me  fly, 
Lest  precious  tears  should  drop  from  Susan's  eye." 

The  boatswain  gave  the  dreadful  word, 
The  sails  their  swelling  bosom  spread ; 

No  longer  must  she  stay  aboard ; 

They  kissed,  she  sighed,  he  hung  his  head. 

Her  lessening  boat  unwilling  rows  to  land; 

"  Adieu  ! "  she  cries,    and  waves  her  lily  hand. 


'TWAS  WHEN  THE  SEAS  WERE  ROARING. 
THE  words  of  the  following  song  were  written  by  JOHN  GAY.    It  was  made  for  a 
t. a-i  -  comic  play,  entitled  «  What-d'-ye-call-it  f    This  was  an  entirely  new  style  of  piece, 
m  which  the  action  was  apparently  tragic,  but  the  language  absurd.     Part  of  the  audi- 


'TWAS   WHEN  THE  SEAH   WERE  HOAR  ING. 


ence,  catching  the  latter  but  faintly,  were  ready  to  dissolve  in  tears,  while  the  rest  were 
so  convulsed  with  laughter,  that  the  drift  of  the  piece  was  forgotten  in  the  enjoyment. 
Campbell  says  of  the  author :  "  The  works  of  Gay  are  on  our  shelves,  but  not  in  our 
pockets, — in  our  remembrance,  but  not  in  our  memories.'  His  fables  are  as  good  as  a 
series  of  such  pieces  will,  in  all  possibility,  ever  be.  No  one  has  envied  him  their  produc- 
tion ;  but  many  would  like  to  have  the  fame  of  having  written  '  The  Shepherd's  Week/ 
'Black-eyed  Susan/  and  the  ballad  that  begins,  "Twas  when  the  Seas  were  Eoaring.''' 
Cowper,  in  a  letter  dated  August  4,  1783,  says :  "  What  can  be  prettier  than  Gay's  ballad, 
or  rather  Swift's,  Arbuthnot's,  Pope's,  and  Gay's,  in  the  <  What-d'-ye-call-it?' — "Twas  when 
the  Seas  were  Roaring.'  I  have  been  well  informed  that  they  all  contributed." 

The  music  of  the  ballad  is  from  HANDEL.  Handel,  among  the  other  great  composers, 
is  seldom  associated  with  song  music,  but  the  time  was,  in  England  at  least,  when  no  con- 
cert programme  was  complete  without  several  of  Handel's  songs.  Many  of  his  most  beau- 
tiful melodies  are  never  heard. 


Andanttno. 


Harmonized  by  EDWARD  S.  CUMMINGS. 


look  ; 


Her       head  was  crown'd  with  wil    -    lows,  That         trem  -  bled     o'er       the  brook. 


I 


&: 


130 


<>n;  FAMILIAL:  .vo.v/,-.v 


"Twelve  months  are  gone  and  over. 

And  nine  long  tedious  days : 
Why  didst  thou,  venturous  lover, 

Why  didst  thou  trust  the -seas? 
Cease,  cease,  thou  cruel  ocean. 

And  let  my  lover  rest  — 
Ah!  what's  thy  troubled  motion 

To  that  within  my  breast ! 

"  The  merchant,  robbed  of  pleasure, 

Views  tempests  in  despair; 
But  what's  the  loss  of  treasure 

To  losing  of  my  dear? 
Should  you  some  coast  be  laid  on, 

Where  gold  and  diamonds  grow, 
You'll  find  a  richer  maiden, 

But  none  that  loves  you  so. 


"  How  can  they  say  that  nature 

Has  nothing  made  in  vain; 
Why,  then,  beneath  the  water, 

Should  hideous  rocks  remain? 
No  eyes  these  rocks  discover, 

That  lurk  beneath  the  deep, 
To  wreck  the  wandering  lover, 

And  leave  the  maid  to  weep." 

All  melancholy  lying, 

Thus  wailed  she  for  her  dear  ; 
Repaid  each  blast  with  sighing, 

Each  billow  with  a  tear  : 
When  o'er  the  white  wave  stooping, 

His  floating  corpse  she  spied, 
Then  like  a  lily  drooping, 

She  bowed  her  head,  and  died. 


A  LIFE  ON  THE  OCEAN  WAVE. 

EPES  SARGENT,  author  of  "  A  Life  on  the  Ocean  Wave,"  was  born  in  Gloucester,  Mass., 
September  27,  1812.  He  is  well  known  as  the  author  of  much  graceful  prose  and  verse, 
and  the  editor  of  several  fine  collections.  He  was  a  journalist  and  long  resided  in  Boston, 
where  he  died  in  December,  1880.  I  am  indebted  to  him  for  this  history  of  the  song: 

"  A  Life  on  the  Ocean  Wave  was  written  for  HENRY  RUSSELL.  The  subject  of  the 
song  was  suggested  to  me  as  I  was  walking,  one  breezy,  sun-bright  morning  in  spring,  on 
the  Battery,  in  New  York,  and  looking  out  upon  the  ships  and  the  small  craft  under  full 
sail.  Having  completed  my  song  and  my  walk  together,  I  went  to  the  office  of  the  Mirror, 
wrote  out  the  words,  and  showed  them  to  my  good  friend,  George  P.  Moms.  After  read- 
ing the  piece,  he  said,  ' My  dear  boy,  this  is  not  a  song;  it  will  never  do  for  music ;  but  it 
is  a  very  nice  little  lyric ;  so  let  me  take  it  and  publish  it  in  the  Mirror.'  I  consented,  and 
concluded  that  Morris  was  right.  Some  days  after  the  publication  of  the  piece,  I  met 
Russell.  'Where  is  that  song?'  asked  he.  'I  tried  my  hand  at  one  and  failed/  said  I. 
'How  do  you  know  thatf  'Morris  tells  me  it  won't  answer.'  'And  is  Morris  infallible? 
Hand  me  the  piece,  young  man,  and  let  us  go  into  Hewitt's  back  room  here,  at  the  corner 
of  Park  Place  and  Broadway,  and  see  what  we  can  make  out  of  your  lines.' 

"  We  passed  through  the  music  store.  Russell  seated  himself  at  the  piano ;  read  over 
the  lines  attentively;  hummed  an  air  or  two  to  himself;  then  ran  his  fingers  over  the 
keys,  then  stopped  as  if  nonplussed.  Suddenly  a  bright  idea  seemed  to  dawn  upon  him ; 
a  melody  hud  all  at  once  floated  into  his  brain,  and  he  began  to  hum  it,  and  to  sway  him- 
self to  its  movement.  Then  striking  the  keys  tentatively  a  few  times,  he  at  last  confidently 
launched  into  the  air  since  known  as  'A  Life  on  the  Ocean  Wave.'  'I've  got  it !'  he  ex- 
claimed. It  was  all  the  work  of  a  few  minutes.  I  pronounced  the  melody  a  success,  and 
t  proved  so.  The  copyright  of  the  song  became  very  valuable,  though  I  never  got  any- 
thing from  it  myself.  It  at  once  became  a  favorite,  and  soon  the  bands  were  playing  it  in 
the  streets.  A  year  or  two  after  its  publication,  I  received  from  England  copies  of  five  or 
six  different  editions  that  had  been  issued  there  by  competing  publishers." 


A  LIFE  OJV  THE  OCEAN  WAVE. 


131 


//  tempo  vivace. 


1  A         life      on      the       o      -      cean        wave!. 

2  The     land     is       no      Ion  -ger     in         view, . . 


A  home    on     the      roll    -       ing 

The         clouds  have    be  -  gun  to 


«—    —  |— j — g— :  — I — * — :  zz?~  zzfzz 

•*"'•••••    •"'-       •  ••    • 


=?=•==¥=- 


S— N— 


deep! Where  the    scat  -ter'd     wa    -  ters      rave, And  the    winds  their  rev   -els 

frown But   with      a        stout    ves-sel  and    crew, We'll  say,    let        the  stormcome 


H       :    ['-'-I- — i — j 1—  i    .  i    3 

EE  gE3ES  ESE: 


:-:t 


35:E-EE2E«E    ESE3EEBE3E 


=± 


keep! 
down ! 


11 


Si/a. 


Spiritoso. 


A  home  on    the    roll    -  ing 

The        clouds  have  be  -  gun       to 


-^ ^ ^0* -^ *  * 

-^^^  ^^^^  ^^^  ^^  \   i  *  \       0  0 

— ^ i — ^^^—f — -f • — -^^^—\ .^^*H»  IT ^ -—-,g ,,  i. 

gH=^B=    ^^=3^^E^= 


-HS —  -^.I'ly.'T *^'P~~  f       f     r~*~  — f X^ — 

£T  1^ 


deep! Where  the    scat  -ter'd     wa  -    ters       rave, And  the    winds  their      re    -  vels 

frown, But  with      a         stout    ves-sel  and      crew, We'll  say,     let        the       stormcome 


_  -_      __-_  _ 

1 J 1 ^ 1 J J U  _J 0 0 *-_.) j 1 ~ 

-*•        f  •*•  f^  -*•        f      •*        f      -*•        ;V  •*•*-» 


=!= 


r         *         ? 


OUR  FAMILIAR  SONGS. 


«^»> 
— I A — -s — 
— . — - 


k,.,.,,! Like  an       ea    -    gle    cag'd       I       pine On  this    dull,      un  -  ehang  -  ing 

down! And  the  song    of       our    hearts  shall      be, While  the  winds     and     the    waters 


\^     i-  r. - 


shore, Oh    give   me   the  flash  -   ing       brine! The    spray  and  the  tern  -    pest 

rave, A       life   on    the  heav  -   ing         sea! A      home    on   theoouad-fog 


•'  *      ~*:  :~~*  —  «  —  •  —  •—•—'•— 


~ 

"       ~~  """" 


-— — A 


roar! A      life    on    the     o    -  cean       wave! A         home    on    the   roll    -  ing 

wave 

Cadz.  ad  lib,  8va. 


„    pc==Jt3Szq!r   ^rnniizrr                   —1=0^                     "^ss 
E^E                  -lfe=4^=44«=5=SPt*=  =S=T^^=?=^ 
-tr* — * *— L* »— *i— — r-1-* » — * *— 


deep ! "  • " Where  the   scatt  -  er'd  wa    -  ters       rave, And  the    winds  their  re  -  vels 

8va... 


A  LIFE  ON  THE  OCEAN  WAVE. 


133 


l±jEiz~;       0     — ~1*~\    -| .  j     ~^-~f — ^1 —        ^=3=  z^rrniizi:  :z:£zin!zr  ~i^~^( 


keep! The        winds,. 

8va. . . 


the        winds,. 


the      winds  their     rev  -    els 


~^i    '* — 1^1    i^-   —  -^^— »- 


1 


Srt=*: 


keep ! . 


The       winds, . 


the        winds, the      winds   their     re    -  vels 


8va. 


=r~       ~i 1~  Ir0^^— =-r 

^=?=»=;=f=»=t=t^=f=t= 


Sfe 


fr 


' '    '        ' '    5        ' '    '     *  -"^"     *~ 

I 


-a*-:* 


keep ! . 


-T—(2.^ 


— ? — I  __l        i .1 


cres. 


f 


— *— |  — ^=^—    ~^-»—  :=3^»~    ~^~*-^  —+  *      .j.  *        * 

-     f-      f'     f-      7-     r-      f- 


8va 

tr 

\r^~ 

d:        


1 


a 


* f 


decres. 


— f-1       ~  ^J"      ^ 

I  -}-      -J- 


_     __  __  _ . 

' 
i  i  i  r  r 


134 


OUR  FAMILIAR  SO NO  A 


lib 


-i » — — 

=?-•         •         J 


Once     more    on       the    deck  I  stand Of    my       own  swift -glid    -     ing 


^  ^ 


I       •* 


-*-,-»—»— 

I2=f  =?i^=: 


craft; Set  sail!    fare-well   to  the        land. The         gale  follows-   fair       a  - 


...q^ 


-•—       f— •- 

5=^ 


-y— 


Of  my         own      swift  glid     -    ing 


craft' 


sail  '    fare  -  well  to  the       land,  ......        The         gale  fol  -lows  fair       a  - 


3E^      E^  3=F*^       F^|  p^      3^^E^SE  S^ 
T      ^T         •     T — ^^* — ;-L-J-J— *-j_  _,_t_j__^  =ij   jr-=»- 


A  LIFE  OX  THE  OCEAN  WAVE. 


135 


-    baft. 


We        shoot  thro' the  spark- ling        foam,....        Like    an        o    -    cean     bird     set 


pe$ 


_•» ~*      «f _* j 

'         7       __  g    » 


•3? 

I  ~- 


:j     j         — ]s==*r:£=ii±-=— :£==3 ^1=3= 

c — orv— — -•— 0— 0 — f:"^:  — •      ••-  -     J—  -*^v 


-N-T S K K- 

__L?     _L ij? i^ i~ 


-*—\ • • *- 


^ 


free, Like  the       o    -     cean    bird       our      home We'll      find   far  out    on       the 


. 

-f    ?    •  - 


sea ! A      life    on    the     o    -  ceau       wave ! A        home   on.   the   roll    -  ing 

Cads,  ad  lib.  8va. 


deep! Where  the   scat  -  ter'd  wa    -tors       rave, And  the    winds  their  re  -  vels 

Sva.. . 


* 


^i  m 


~^ 


5 — *»—     —  *^~* * — 9 « — ^ — tri — » —   — * — C4 — 


OUll    FAMILIAR    SONGS. 


keep ! The       winds 


the      winds  their     rev  -    els 


8va 


==pf  E 


the      winds   their     re    -  vels 


keep! The        winds, 


I  I 


=t 


keep! 


f-       f 


.  loco. 


:-    S 


m 


decres. 


V  •&•  •& 


44-J—  ,,          ^   P  PP 


i  i 


A    WET   SHEET   AND   A    FLOWING-    SEA.  137 

A  WET  SHEET  AND  A  FLOWING  SEA. 

THE  name  of  ALLAN  CUNNINGHAM,  author  of  the  song  which  follows,  suggests  one  of 
the  pleasantest  characters  among  the  producers  of  lyric  poetry.  He  was  born  at  Black- 
wood,  in  Nithside,  Dumfriesshire,  Scotland,  December  7, 1784.  At  the  time  of  his  birth,  his 
father  was  a  land-steward.  His  mother  was  a  lady  of  fine  accomplishments.  Allan  was 
the  fourth  of  eleven  children,  and,  after  an  elementary  education,  was  apprenticed  to  an 
older  brother,  who  was  a  stone-mason.  Every  spare  moment  was  spent  in  poring  over 
books,  or  listening  to  the  legends  that  his  mother  knew  how  to  set  forth  picturesquely. 

A  little  river  divided  the  lands  which  his  father  superintended,  from  the  farm  of 
Burns ;  and  the  young  Allan  received  indelible  impressions  from  the  poet  who  patted  his 
childish  head.  The  Ettrick  Shepherd,  too,  was  feeding  his  master's  flock  on  the  hills  near 
by.  Allan  had  long  admired  him  in  secret,  and  one  day,  with  his  brother  James,  he  started 
to  pay  his  hero  a  visit.  It  was  on  an  autumn  afternoon,  and  the  shepherd  was  watching  his 
sheep  on  the  great  hill  of  Queensbury,  when  he  saw  the  brothers  approaching.  James 
stepped  forward  and  asked  if  his  name  was  Hogg,  saying  that  his  own  was  Cunningham. 
He  turned  toward  Allan,  who  was  lingering  bashfully  behind,  and  told  the  shepherd  that 
he  had  brought  to  see  him  "  The  greatest  admirer  he  had  on  earth,  himself,  a  young, 
aspiring  poet  of  some  promise."  Hogg  received  them  warmly,  and  they  passed  a  lively 
afternoon.  From  that  time,  Hogg  was  a  frequent  visitor  at  the  Cunningham's.  Before  this 
time,  Mr.  Cunningham  had  died,  and  the  young  Allan  was  giving  his  whole  strength  to 
assist  in  the  support  of  the  family.  Busy  as  he  was,  he  could  write  little,  but  he  read  at 
every  opportunity.  "  The  Lay  of  the  Last  Minstrel "  appeared,  and  Allan  saved  his  pennies 
until  he  had  the  vast  sum  of  twenty-four  shillings  to  invest  in  the  poem,  which  he  com- 
mitted to  memory.  When  "Marmion"  was  published,  he  was  wild  with  delight,  and 
could  not  restrain  himself  until  he  had  travelled  all  the  way  to  Edinburgh  to  look  upon 
the  marvelous  poet.  Arrived  there,  he  was  patiently  walking  back  and  forth  before  Scott's 
house,  when  he  was  called  from  the  window  of  the  one  adjoining.  A  lady  of  some  distinc- 
tion, from  his  native  town,  had  recognized  his  face.  He  had  but  just  told  her  his  desires, 
when  the  bard  came  pacing  down  the  street,  absently  passed  his  own  door,  and  ascended 
the  steps  of  the  house  whence  his  enthusiastic  admirer  was  watching  him.  Scott  rang, 
was  admitted, — or  rather  stepped  directly  in  as  the  door  was  opened,  but  started  back  at 
the  unfamiliar  sight  of  a  row  of  little  bonnets,  and  beat  a  hasty  retreat.  He  afterward 
spoke  with  the  greatest  warmth  of  Cunningham's  poetry,  and  always  called  him  "  honest 
Allan." 

When  Cunningham  was  twenty-five  years  old,  and  had  published  a  few  beautiful 
poems,  Mr.  Cromek,  the  London  engraver  and  antiquarian,  visited  Scotland,  and  was  sent 
to  Allan  Cunningham,  as  just  the  one  to  assist  him  in  his  search  for  "  Reliques  of  Burns." 
He  asked  to  see  some  of  Allan's  writings.  The  pedantic  antiquary  gave  a  little  grudging 
praise,  but  advised  him  to  collect  the  old  songs  of  his  district,  instead  of  writing  new  stuff. 
An  idea  shot  into  the  poet's  brain,  and  in  due  time  a  package  labelled  "old  songs," 
reached  Cromek.  The  antiquary  was  charmed,  and  urged  Allan  to  come  to  London  to 
superintend  the  forthcoming  volume,  which  he  did.  The  collection  of  quaint  and  beautiful 
verse  made  a  decided  impression.  Hogg,  John  Wilson,  and  other  discerning  critics  saw 
the  clever  deception,  but  Cromek  did  not  live  to  have  his  confidence  in  himself  and  human 
nature  shaken  by  "  honest  Allan." 

After  Cromek's  death,  Cunningham  was  obliged  to  return  to  his  stone-mason's  craft, 
and  he  is  said  to  have  laid  pavement  in  Newgate  street,  Edinburgh.  He  made  an  unsuc- 
cessful attempt  at  newspaper  reporting,  and  then  obtained  a  situation  in  the  studio  of  the 
eminent  English  sculptor,  Francis  Chantry,  then  just  beginning  his  career  in  London.  He 


138 


OUR  FAMILIAR  SONGS. 


spent  the  remaining  thirty-two  years  of  his  life  in  a  position  of  trust  with  this  .sculptor; 
writing  industriously  in  all  his  leisure  hours.  By  English  critics,  he  is  said  to  have  the  best 
prose  style  ever  attained  north  of  the  Tweed,  and  the  Scotch  rank  him  next  to  Hogg  as  a 
song-writer.  He  died  in  London,  October  29,  1842. 

Scott  said  that  "  A  Wet  Sheet  and  a  Flowing  Sea,"  was  "  the  best  song  going."     The 
music  is  the  famous  French  military  air,  Le  petit  tambour. 


A       wet    sheet    and      a       flow-ing    sea,        A       wind    that    fol  -  lows    fast.  And 

2     O        for       a       soft    and    gen -tie    wind,      I      heard     a       fair    one      cry,  But 

3.  There's  tern  -  pest    in      yon  horn  -  ed    moon,    And    light-ning      in      yon    cloud,         And 


-j — H     ;  ~T~ — -j— -^^-rip 

4.     £     £—        — .• i*.     £-    —£r£r£: 


fills      the      white    and     rust  -  ling    sail,       And    bends     the       gal    -   lant     mast, 

five       to        me       the    snor   -  ing    breeze,    And    white   waves  heav  -   ing       high  ; 
ark!    the       mu    -   sic,    mar    -   i    -  ners, 


The     wind       is       pip    -   ing        loud; 


And  bends  the     gal -lant       mast,    my  boys!  While  like  the       ea-gle         free,  A- 

And  white  waves  neaving         high    my  boys!  The    good  ship    tight  and        free;  Tin1 

The  wind    is       pip  -  ing        loud,    my  boys !  The      lightning    flashing         free,  While 


-«*— 

—0  

-I 

war       the      good     ship      flies, 
world       of        wa  -    ters        is 
the        hoi  -    low      oak       our 


and  leaves 
our  home, 
palace  is, 


Old  Eng  -  land  on 
And  mer  -  ry  men 
Our  her  -  i  -  tage 


the  lea. 
are  we. 
the  sea. 


"^                  r* 

'     i 

**    •» 

B 

-*- 

7 

1               " 
—  m  

:r= 


Z?.C. 


THE   STORMY  PETREL.  139 

THE   STORMY   PETREL. 

THE  words  of  "The  Stormy  Petrel"  were  written  by  BRYAN  WALLER  PROCTER  (Barry 
Cornwall).  The  air  was  composed  by  the  Chevalier  NEUKOMM.  "The  Chevalier,"  says 
Chorley,  "  was  as  cunning  in  his  generation  as  his  poet  was  the  reverse.  On  the  strength 
of  this  success  and  his  partner's  simplicity,  the  musician  beguiled  the  poet  to  write  some 
half  hundred  lyrics  for  music,  the  larger  number  of  which  are  already  among  the  classics 
of  English  song,  in  grace  and  melody,  recalling  the  best  of  our  old  dramatists,  and  surpris- 
ingly little  touched  by  conceit.  Will  it  be  believed  that  for  such  admirable  service  the 
noble-hearted  poet  was  never  even  offered  the  slightest  share  in  gains  which  would  have 
had  no  existence,  save  for  his  suggesting  genius,  by  the  miserable  Chevalier  ?  It  only 
dawned  on  him  that  his  share  of  the  songs  must  have  some  value,  when  the  publishers, 
•without  hint  or  solicitation,  in  '  acknowledgment  of  the  success,'  sent  a  slight  present  of 
jewelry  to  a  member  of  his  family." 

The  Stormy  Petrel  is  the  bird  known  to  sea  superstition  as  "  Mother  Carey's  Chicken." 
The  name  was  first  applied  by  Captain  Carteret's  sailors,  and  is  supposed  to  refer  to  a 
mischievous  old  woman  of  that  name ;  for  the  petrel  is  a  bird  of  ill-omen. 

The  song  was  written  for  Henry  Phillips,  who  in  his  pleasant  "  Kecollections,"  gives 
this  incident  of  his  voyage  to  America :  "  It  was  a  glorious,  bright  day,  and  we  were  skim- 
ming before  a  lovely  breeze,  watching  the  flocks  of  little  petrels  at  the  stern  of  the  vessel, 
when  the  captain,  having  taken  his  observation  at  the  meridian,  announced  in  a  loud  voice 
that  we  were  just  a  thousand  miles  from  land.  On  the  instant,  Barry  Cornwall's  beautiful 
words  occurred  to  me,  and  Neukomm's  admirable  music  to  the  song  he  wrote  for  me,  '  The 
Stormy  Petrel.'  l  Come,'  said  I,  to  my  fellow  passengers,  '  come  down  into  the  saloon,  and 
I'll  tell  you  all  about  it,  in  music.'  Away  we  went.  I  sat  down  to  the  pianoforte,  and 
sang — 

'  A  thousand  miles  from  land  are  we, 
Tossing  about  on  the  roaring  sea.' " 


>       > 

1.  A      thou    -    sand    miles      from    land       are  we,  Toss    -  ing    a  -  bout     on     the 

2.  A    home,          if       such        a       place       can         be,       For      her       who        lives      on     the 


it 

r-d^- 

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.".,  ..^ 

roar 
wild, 

C~Vt<+           » 

4  0  •- 

£    * 

-    ing       sea, 
wild     sea,                For 

_  1  f. 

Toss  - 
her 

—  T-»  

—  *~T  

ing 
who 

—  »  

«—  5  — 

a  -  bout 
lives 

0  — 

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on      the  roar  - 
on      the  wild, 

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140 


OUR  FAMILIAR  SONGS. 


bil    -   low   to  bound  -ing       bil     -      low        cast, 
waves      her       rest,      on       waves       her       food, 


2     fe^Mrjr     H~        '* 

Like       flee    -    cy         snow      in      the 


S          S        I  1^***        -^  _j**~" 

g=grdz=iJ_Za     i^zrj^iz^rzzzibnzip:     zi^z^za 
rr— F  -*» ^%«^*7ijdzi*:±^:p!q ; r     — <<~ — <r-f 


stor  -    my      blast,  While    the  whale     and       shark      and 
rock      her     brood,  And      the   sai    -    lor         hates       her 


sword  -  fish      sleep       For  -    ty 
well  -  known  form,      For       it 


— Z5l ZSl— 

fa    -  thorns  beneath,  far     down    the      deep,         fa    -  thorns       be  -  neath,    far       down       the 
brings    him       news  of    a    com  -  ing  storm,  It    brings    him  news       of       com    -     ing 


•/ > 


f    J         ^ 


-^T^j f-r  Ji-TH^— — - j- 


L_5_L 

^ ^ 1—  -. 


storm 


Yet  here,    a  -  mid      the    rest  -  less  foam,   The  storm  -  y     pet   -  rel  finds      a    home. 

-£_» — rj__^ 


4 


A  thousand  miles  from  land  are  we, 

Tossing  about  on  the  stormy  sea, — 

From  billow  to  bounding  billow  cast, 

Like  fleecy  snow  on  the  stormy  blast. 

The  sails  are  scattered  abroad  like  weeds : 

The  strong  masts  shake  like  quivering  reeds ; 

The  mighty  cables  and  iron  chains, 

The  hull,  which  all  earthly  strength  disdains  — 

They  strain  and  they  crack;  and  hearts  like  stone 

Their  natural,  hard,  proud  strength  disown. 

Up  and  down  !  —  up  and  down ! 

From    the  base  of    the  wave    to    the   billow's 

crown, 

And  amidst  the  flashing  and  feathery  foam 
The  stormy  petrel  finds  a  home, — 
A  home,  if  such  a  place  may  be 


For  her  who  lives  on  the  wide,  wide  sea, 

On  the  craggy  ice,  in  the  frozen  air, 

And  only  seeketh  her  rocky  lair 

To  warm  her  young,  and  to  teach  them  to  spring 

At  once  o'er  the  waves  on  their  stormy  wing! 

O'er  the  deep !  —  o'er  the  deep ! 
Where  the  whale,  and  the  shark,  and  the  sword- 
fish  sleep, — 

Outflying  the  blast  and  the  driving  rain, 
The  petrel  telleth  her  tale  —  in  vain; 
For  the  mariner  curseth  the  warning  bird 
Which  bringeth  him  news  of  the  storm  unheardt 
Ah !  thus  does  the  prophet  of  good  or  ill 
Meet  hate  from  the  creatures  he  serveth  still ; 
Yet,  he  ne'er  falters,  —  so,  petrel,  spring 
Once  more  o'er  the  waves  on  thy  stormy  wing  I 


ROCK  A  WAY. 


141 


ROCKAWAY. 

THE  song  which  recalls  the  days  when  Eockaway  was  a  far-famed  and  fashion- 
able watering  place,  was  the  joint  production  of  HENRY  JOHN  SHARPE  and  HENRY 
KUSSELL.  Mr.  Sharpe,  writer  of  the  words,  was  a  Philadelphia  druggist,  and  also  an  ama- 
teur litterateur  of  forty  years  ago.  These  two  men  were  associated  in  a  piece  of  rhyme 
which  appeared  in  Morris  and  Willis's  New  Mirror.  The  rhyme  written  by  Sharpe  recounts 
the  incident  that  first  induced  Russell  to  visit  the  United  States.  It  is  called,  "  The  Old 
Dutch  Clock,"  and  reads  as  follows : 


At  a  lone  inn,  one  dreary,  dismal  night, 

It  was  my  hapless  fortune  to  alight. 

The  piercing  wind  howled  round  the  chimney-tops; 

Hark !  how  the  hail  against  the  lattice  drops  I 

What  sound  is  that— methinks  I  hear  a  knock — 
'Twas  but  the  ticking  of  an  "  Old  Dutch  Clock : " 
I  hate  Dutch  clocks — I  know  not  why — it  seems 
As  if  they  were  the  harbinger  of  dreams. 

Above  the  dial-plate  a  spectre  stood, 
True  to  the  very  life — though  carved  in  wood, 
A  Saracen — whose  huge,  sepulchral  eyes 
Rolled  to  and  fro  —  ah  me !  how  slow  time  flies ! 

I  sipped  my  punch — stirred  up  the  smouldering  fire, 
And  wrapped  my  cloak  around  me  to  retire, 
Snugly  ensconced  upon  an  old  arm-chair : 
Tick,  tick !  how  terribly  those  eye-balls  glare ! 

Methinks  they  gazed  at  me,  then  at  the  bowl, — 
"  Meinheer,  if  thou  art  thirsty,  by  my  soul, 
I'll  pledge  thce  true,  if  thou'lt  but  let  me  sleep, 
By  all  the  '  spirits  of  the  vasty  deep.' n 

A  sudden  gust  now  shook  the  house  around, 
The  old  Dutch  clock  came  tumbling  to  the  ground, 
The  death-like  ticking  ceased  —  the  eyes  were  still  — 
The  fire  was  nearly  spent — the  air  was  chill. 


Sempre  moderato. 


Amidst  the  shower  of  flying  atoms  rose 
Three  phantom-spirits—hush!  how  hard  it  blows! 
The  first,  the  eagle,  joined  to  human  form, 
Flapped  his  spread  wings  terrific  with  the  storm. 

He  fixed  his  talons  on  my  bosom  fast, 
And  thus  addressed  me— "  Slave !  /  am  the  Past  I 
What  hast  thou  done  that's  worthy  of  a  name, 
On  the  high  record  of  immortal  fame?" 

A  statue  next,  of  a  gigantic  height, 

With  lofty  brow  and  eyes  intensely  bright, 

In  a  sonorous  voice  distinctly  said, 

"  Heed  not  the  Past,  he  hath  forever  fled. 

"  I  am  the  Present,  list  to  what  I  say — 
All  doubts  and  dangers  then  will  flee  away; 
The  earth  is  stern  and  sterile — take  this  spade, 
Compel  her  bounty  if  you  seek  her  aid." 

Soft  music  broke  upon  my  slumbering  ear, 
Methought  I  heard  a  seraph's  whisper  near — 
It  was  the  Future,  robed  in  virgin  white ; 
In  gentle  woman's  form  it  caught  my  sight. 

"Awake!  awake!  from  thy  inglorious  rest! 
And  seek  thy  fortune  in  the  boundless  West! " 
Just  then  I  woke— the  pitiless  storm  was  o'er, 
The  old  Dutch  clock  still  ticking  as  before. 


colla  voce. 


— 0- — 0 * 0 0 ~^0 0 — 0 — I -3 


list    -  'uiug  to       the    break  -ers     roar,   That    wash        the  beach  at      Rock  -  a    -   way. 


OUR   FAMILIAR    SONGS. 


— - 2~ j— -rri 

^= 

'X -> 


Long  Island's  sea-girt  shore,  Many  an  hour  I've  wbil'd  away,    In  list'ning  to  the  breakers  rD:ir,  That 


-jj — — — —         — K ft N          ^S~~~S —         — H*-£ 

E      =+r*    •— j=^*=;== f^i£f 


wash     the  beach     at       Rock  -  a    -    way.         Trans  -  fix'd  I've  stood  while  nature's    lyre.       In 


l=£=2~ 


9—  —d •— IT- m~  "TT<>"T"Jl"*"1~j  T*~i~<"     * 

-  ,|--l-  :— J=J      p^±gA 

"*"         "^  "*'"'''  ^?     ^?       -*•     ^n"*-*-     -*•"*-»•     ^ 


i^^T 


-*< N 


Quasi  andante. 


—•-.     _. 

d=i:fcij=a~ *"  =f==f=if=: 

__^?_^_! —  — ^Z=Z^_=tl kx_ 


one     bar  -    mo  -  nious    con  -  cert    broke,       And       catching      its    pro  -  me  -thcan  fire,  My 


voce. 
I  I 


in  -  most  sou!    to    rap  -ture  woke.  Oh ! 


On  old    Long     Is  -  land's  sea  -  girt    shore, 


m  =1=  ^P  =£5 


3* 


•—* l-s— 


Ma-ny     an     hour  I've  whil'd    a    -way,        In        list-'ning    to      the     break -cr's    roar,    That 
8va 


E-f2?iE3E3 
-^^ — r^ 


• 


ji__ 
^^^j 


BOCKAWAY. 


143 


f<=:p=rq^::r= 

=3=g=gg= 


wash  the  beach  at    Kock  -  a  -  way. 


£     *     *•     *•  -^ji   ^  •*•  A  -^-l-*-  *• 

-* (a 1 1 ~ . m — - r— 1 1 1-  ff'l 1— 


ls?=«=  =t 


how   de -light  -  fill 'tis  to  stroll,Where  murm'ring  winds  and  waters  meet,    Marking  the  bil-lowsas    they  roll,    And 


-M.-M    ' 


\=f, 

I  I 

^=jM 


V 

^ P 


-K -N — T -h K- 


:^=5=^t:=^z=itiTz= 
^=  -^ *-*=*—  =^=p= 


break       re  -  sist  -   less        at       your    feet;      To       watch  young  I  -  ris,      as     she      dips     Her 


?=?=* 


^J^^T— =3 
-*          0 3 


--*, h- 


man  -  tie         in      the      spark-  ling      dew,         And    chas'd  by      Sol,  .    a   -  way  she    trips,  O'er 


*= 


-+-*— ^  \  0   I   I 

-*-,-< :— M 


1= 


144 


OUR   FAMILIAR   SONUS. 

/Ts  /*?N 


<— *       f g— f 1*: 


the    ho  -  ri  -  son's  quiv'ring  blue,   Oh ! 


On  old    Long     Is  -  land's  sea  -  girt    shore, 
JL  8va." ' v 


S 


-r-r*-* 1  «J  *  -!-*-:}-«- 

^P=S=SS==^^ 


3£^ 


3?i 


')*    . 


* 


n^i -•  -f^ — x^l — "j^— X»  F 
i^* —  j& — "^* — *^" — ^^- 

5§  ^^)  ^f^i 


-. 


Ma  -  ny     an     hour  I've  whil'd    a    -  way,     In          list  -  'ning    to     the     break  -ers'    roar,  That 
8va 4 loco. 


i 


J -S- 


wash  the  beach  at    Rock  -  a  -  way. 


«4: 


^      4L 


— •      — ~ ^-  — 

^=^r*-^-?i 


^Srf- 
rt  /<?f^. 


hear  the  startling  night-winds  sigh,  As  dreamy    twilight  lulls    to  sleep,  While  the  pale  moon  reflects  from  high  Her 


aSe    in        the     migh-    ty     deep.    Ma    -      jes  -  tic  scene,  where  na  -  ture  dwells,  Pro    - 


•  9 * — • 

HE 


ROCK  A  WAY. 


H5 


r±c=l: 


~K— 

-*-  ~ 


-    found  in        ev   -    er    -   last  -  ing       love,      While      her   un  -  raeas  -  ur'd    mu  -  sic  swells,  The 


:±^r- 


'  • 


5*3      3      3      3      3      3       * 


vault-ed    firm  -  a-ment    a  -  bove.    Oh  ! 


v >- 


-V iX- 


On  old    Long     Is  -  land's  sea  -  girt    shore, 
8va." 


^ 

t 


T 

f  —  f* 

— 


Ma  -  ny     an     hour  I've  whil'd    a    -  way,     In  list  -  'ning    to      the     break  -ers'    roar,   That 

8va ..  loco. 


wash  the  beach  at    Rock  -  a  -  way. 


ill 


I 


y^ 


53^ 


i 


L±=JJ  &±f~*  • 

=?=.! *_i=iizr 


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izi  i  _!*-•..          i       p '-B-11 

g=K — "^g=Eg^a 


(10) 


146 


OUK   FAMILIAR   XONGX. 


WHAT  ARE  THE  WILD  WAVES  SAYING? 

THE  words  of  this  beautiful  duet,  suggested  by  the  well-known  scene  in  "  Dombey  and 
Son,"  were  written  by  DR.  JOSEPH  EDWARDS  CARPENTER  ;  the  music  by  STEPHEN  GLOVER. 
Carpenter  was  born  in  London,  November  2,  1813.  He  began  his  career  as  a  song-writer, 
in  1828,  and  before  he  was  seventeen  years  of  age,  London  was  ringing  with  his  comic 
ballads.  These  included  "That's  the  way  the  Money  goes,"  "I'm  quite  a  Ladies' man," 
« Going  out  a  Shooting."  In  1837  he  went  to  reside  in  Leamington,  where  he  was  con- 
nected with  the  newspaper  press.  In  1851  he  returned  .to  London,  and  a  year  later 
appeared  as  a  public  singer  and  lecturer.  He  is  now  ( 1880)  on  the  editorial  staff  of  Funny 
Folks. 

Dr.  Carpenter  has  published  two  novels,  half  a  dozen  volumes  of  poems,  about  twenty 
dramas,  operettas,  and  farces,  and  more  than  three  thousand  songs.  He  has  also  compiled 
several  volumes  of  popular  songs,  and  a  series  of  "  penny  readings."  His  words  have  been 
set  to  music  by  nearly  every  prominent  English  composer  of  the  last  half  century. 

STEPHEN  GLOVER  was  born  in  London,  in  1813.  He  composed  music  correctly  at  the 
age  of  nine,  and  his  life  was  devoted  to  the  art.  His  instrumental  music  has  had  an  im- 
mense circulation,  and  some  of  his  songs  have  been  widely  popular.  His  own  favorites 
were  his  adaptations  of  Scripture  words,  which  breathe  a  simple  trust  in  the  Christian 
faith — the  ruling  principle  of  his  life.  His  themes  were  characterized  by  a  melodious 
sweetness,  and  were  pathetic,  lively,  or  tender,  in  accordance  with  the  words  of  the  song, 
to  which  they  were  always  carefully  suited.  Mr.  Glover  was  passionately  fond  of  country 
life,  and  most  of  his  compositions  were  written  in  rural  retirement.  During  a  visit  to  the 
seaside  in  1867,  he  met  with  a  severe  accident,  from  the  effects  of  which  he  never  recov- 
ered, and  which  virtually  closed  his  musical  career.  He  travelled  from  place  to  place,  in 
search  of  health,  and  died  on  the  7th  of  December,  1870.  A  memoir  of  him,  published  in 
^in  English  journal,  closes  with  this  paragraph :  "  The  editor  can  not  allow  this  brief  notice 
to  go  forth  without  bearing  his  testimony  to  the  gentleness,  the  courtesy,  the  manifold 
Christian  virtues  of  his  departed  friend.  To  the  great  ability  which  has  secured  for  his 
compositions  a  world- wide  fame,  Mr.  Glover  added  that  self-negation  which  is  even  more 
rare  than  the  exquisite  skill  of  the  sweet  singer." 


PAUL. 


are    the  wild  waves 
but  the  waves  seem 

i^_  Si 


• 


long. 
tiling; 


That 


a-mid        our 


play    -  ing, 
And      vain         is    my  weak     en     -       aea    -   vor, 


I 

To 


WHAT  ARE  THE  WILD   WAVES    SAYING  f 

Agitato,     cres. 


147 


•0          -- fr — fr-j J'***'- 1  — 


hear       but  their  low,      lone        song? 
guess    what  the  sur    -    ges         sing ! 


Not         by    the  sea    -      side 
What       is    that  voice        re 


^E 


dolce. 


on    -      ly, 
peat   -    ing, 


There       it  sounds  wild    and  free ; 

Ev     -     er    by  night     and  day  ? 


But    at 


dim. 


Efc 


E^j^^bzf-*— 3=5=^E}=^    =*=E        =£=  E| 


* 


night,    when  'tis  dark    and  lone        -  ly,        In  dreams      it     is  still  with 

Is  it       a  friend  -  ly  greet    -   ing,         Or         a  warn    -   ing  that  calls         a    - 


m 

_T_    _i^ — „__,__- 


-*— — IrX- 


&=?=*=  El?!= 


me... 
way?. 


But    at  night,    when 'tis  dark      and  lone-    ly, 

Is  it       a  friend  -  ly  greet  -  ing, 


y 

In     ' 

Or  a 


^ 
*— J=        g-« 


0. J  _9_         _     _  '    = 


OUR  FAMILIAR   KONG  IS. 


FLORENCE.  /*'»  anitnuto. 


w> 


•ft— t- 


I 


dreams        it     is  still  with    me... 

warn    -  iug  that  calls  a    -    way?. 


Brother!        I         hear       no 
Brother!       the        in    -  land 


zzz^  i — i — i — r— 

—a _ — 1 — « — I—* — tn 

-S--r     -5-  —  to-*  -+•»•— 


dim. 


fl£E^3E^      i?^i 


sing  -    ing! 
moun  -  tain, 


'Tis      but      the  roll  -    ing       wave,.. 
Hath       it       not  voice    and        sound?. 


—     --   —   »     —     -•   —   — •   — .  •• -^  — ^        — *    -^  — -^  ^^  — — 

-9-  •+  -0-  *+  -0-     A  -0-  -0-  -*--*- 


Ev-cr        its    lone    course      winging 
Speaks  not    the  drip   -  ping       fountain, 


O    -  ver  some  o    -   cean       cave!... 
As        it   be-dews      the       ground?. 


:^=S£  ani=3= 

3==±i=33-« ? 


' 


Agitato. 


ffiT~rg*~g— »-^ — 1-=  £^=g 

-h- » 1 U 


••^^•t— — t^ ^ h.  y L  ^ | | -— " ^\_> m    '    w 

Tis     but  the  noise    of          wa       -     ter  Dashing    a -gainst    the  shore,  And  the 

E'en    by  the  household         in       -     gle,  Curtained  and  closed  and  warm. 


^^^^fffT^f^^-^^^^^^^^ 

'r"~~    -N        cen  do. 


•  i  i  f  i  i 

2   •2-r*-*-*-*— *-*-*-•— ,-J J J_  -^d—      — J— 

^ r    ...  * " 


WHAT  All E  THE   WILD   WAVES  SAYING? 


149 


wind  from  some  bleak    -     er       quar  -    ter 
Do       not   our   voi       -    ces       min  -    gle, 


V  • 

Ming  -  ling         with  its 

With       those     of   the     dis       -    tant 


_  ?  _  z«  _   :zi«zi   zzi  _  _zi_~iz:i  _  _  z^nziszzr  _  z  --         —  3  _  z?_ 


jz:i  _  g  _  z^n^zisiz^zr  _  zj  --  g       —  3 

f  *?&****  f    B* 


r-*- 


=F: 


roar,  And   the        wind  from  some   bleak   -   er  quar  -  ter        Ming  -  ling, 

storm?  Do      not     our      voi    -     ces  min  -  gle        With   those 


_A i A, 

^ 
~k *. —  — ft- 


^       ^    •  •  ji  — ^-—       ^       ~S       S     T"  ~M       ^  —       ^ 

_^       ^^ 


,  ^ 


FLORENCE.   Lento. 


ra//. 


ming -ling  with       its    roar 

of       the     dis   -  tant  storm?.... 


— A~ J  i  — "j ~CTT — ' —  n gl 

1.   No!  no.  no.    no!  NoTho, 


1.  No! 

2.  Yes! 
PAUL. 


no,  no,    no! 

yes,         yes ! 


NoTno, 

Yes! 


Ml^t-         =Zp=^lI^Z 


l^lilr^5^zzziE=^z=    !^i== 


Tremolo. 


Lento. 


rail. 


LJk  •     ' 

sttvS:  :r-?— r1?1 
— gg    :          I 


«  tempo. 


13=  =5zi==== 


no !         it       is  some  -  thing  great  -  er, 

yes,      but  there's  something  great  -   er, 


That        speaks    to     the    heart  a  - 

H : 1 


a  tempo. 


150 


OUK    FAMILIAR    SONUS. 


^f-   i — I s K— 2 — r  — 1~* — '^"v^0  m 

=E=  ^  E^ 


lone, 


The       voice      of    the  great       Cre    -       a 


-  tor. 


lone; 


The       voice      of    the  great       Cre    -       a 


-  tor. 


The       voice       of    the  great      Cre    - 


^E      i=E   E^zg__5ZZg 


-    tor. 


Dwells        in      that    might  -  y  tone ! 

rail. 


Dwells        in       that    might  -  y 


-    tor 


tone! 


WHAT  ARE  THE  WILD   WAVEK  SAYING  f 


151 


"  What  are  the  wild  waves  saying, 

Sister,  the  whole  day  long, 
That  ever  amid  our  playing, 

I  hear  but  their  low,  lone  song? 
Not  by  the  seaside  only, 

There  it  sounds  wild  and  free  ; 
But  at  night,  when  'tis  dark  and  lonely, 

In  dreams  it  is  still  with  me." 

"  Brother !  I  hear  no  singing ! 

'Tis  but  the  rolling  wave, 
Ever  its  lone  course  winging 

Over  some  lonesome  cave ! 
'Tis  but  the  noise  of  water 

Dashing  against  the  shore, 
And  the  wind  from  some  bleaker  quarter 

Mingling,  mingling  with  its  roar." 

"  No !     1 1  is  something  greater, 

That  speaks  to  the  heart  alone ; 
The  voice  of'the  great  Creator, 
Dwells  in  that  mighty  tone. 


"  Yes  !     But  the  waves  seem  ever 

Singing  the  same  sad  thing, 
And  vain  is  my  weak  endeavor 

To  guess  what  the  surges  sing ! 
What  is  that  voice  repeating. 

Ever  by  night  and  day? 
Is  it  a  friendly  greeting, 

Or  a  warning  that  calls  away?" 

"  Brother  !  the  inland  mountain, 

Hath  it  not  voice  and  sound? 
Speaks  not  the  dripping  fountain, 

As  it  bedews  the  ground? 
E'en  by  the  household  ingle, 

Curtained  and  closed  and  warm, 
Do  not  our  voices  mingle 

With  those  of  the  distant  storm?" 

"  Yes!     But  there  's  something  greater, 

That  speaks  to  the  heart  alone; 
The  voice  of  the  great  Creator 
Dwells  in  that  mighty  tone ! " 


TRANCADILLO. 

THE  words  of  this  song  were  written  by  CAROLINE  GILMAN,  nee  Howard,  who  was  bom 
In  Boston,  Mass.,  October  8,  1794.  When  sixteen  years  old,  she  wrote  a  poem  on  "  Jairus' 
Daughter,"  which  was  published  in  the  North  American  Review.  In  1819,  she  married 
Rev.  Samuel  Gilman,  and  removed  to  Charleston,  South  Carolina.  She  published  a  series 
of  volumes  of  prose  and  poetry,  most  of  which  are  embodied  in  her  last  book,  "  Stories 
and  Poems  by  a  Mother  and  Daughter"  (1872).  Since  the  war,  Mrs.  Gilman  has  resided  in 
Cambridge,  Mass.  Of  her  little  song,  "  Trancadillo,"  she  writes :  "  The  following  graceful 
harmony,  long  consecrated  to  Bacchanalian  revelry,  has  been  rescued  for  more  genial  and 
lovely  associations.  The  words  were  composed  for  a  private  boat-party  at  Sullivan's  Island, 
South  Carolina,  but  the  author  will  be  glad  to  know  that  the  distant  echoes  of  other  waters 
awake  to  the  spirited  melody.  A  portion  of  the  original  chorus  has  been  retained,  which, 
though  like  some  of  the  Shakesperian  refrains,  seemingly  without  meaning,  lends  anima- 
tion to  the  whole." 

The  air  of  "  Trancadillo"  was  composed  by  FRANCIS  H.  BROWN,  a  New  York  composer 
and  music-teacher,  who  now  resides  in  Stamford,  Connecticut. 


^^mm 


=gl 


o'er   the  blue,     roll   -  ing        wave, 

-f* fc 


The 


1 


o'er   the  blue,      roll   -  ing         wave,  The 

J  J —       g    j        I 


™ 

^ 


1.552 


OUR  FAMILIAR  SONGS. 


be      the   care       of        the          brave. 


love  -    ly      should        still 


be      the   care       of        the          brave.  Tran-ca  - 


I'll    7-* p  J     *— 


W7ti  —  d  — 

5  ~'\ 

Ki_^__ 

-r. 

U"               ' 

^s 

I.                  1 

r-  H  /  J__J: 


-    dil     -    lo,      Tran  -  ca  -  dil    -     lo,      Tran  -  ca  -  dil  -  lo,    dil  -  lo,    dil  -  lo,    dil  -  lo,        With 


J      J 


=* 


-    dil    -    lo,      Tran  -  ca  -  dil    -     lo,      Tran  -  ca-  dil  -  lo,   dil  -  lo,    dil  -  lo,    <lil  -  lo,        With 


=r=p       — ps^— — 

^P 


frfrfr         J      =J==:=J 


r     r 


, 
XJ. 


Legato. 


rW  —  F~ 

f    '                   f 

—m  9  -P- 

—?  —  f~~ 

EJEEJEEgSi 

W-*  —  I  1  v- 

moon-  light            and 

si&r  -  1 

K 
ight           we'll 

bound 

4  —  \— 

o'er       the 

bil    -    low,      Bright 

mvH?  — 

K- 

d  -±— 

=1= 

-J—i  f5- 

—  1  

—  a*  

i    J. 

^  j 

B—  *  *  »-*  • 

moon  -  light            an 

a 

star  -  ] 

3 

ight           we'll  bound 

j  i  j  i  ===! 

o'er       the 

- 

bil   -    low,      Bright 

H*  f  *  

f 

11  11 

V       -*•       -» 

, 

L^dtzJ 
r==- 

- 

'F  f  *  -< 

i  :    :       _q 

-A 

-£-.  

IT  ' 

4  —  :  —  8  — 

^ 


bil   -   low,        gay       bil   -   low,         the       bil  -low,     bil-  low,     bil-  low,  bil -low,       With 


bil   -   low,        gay       bil   -   low,         the       bil  -  low,    bil  -  low,     bil  -  low,  bil  -  low,      With 


J.     -1 


TRANCADILLO. 


153 


f)    u 

J 

y  \y         i*          |*  •           9 

1 

"   ''              f 

frKP  b  H  

-f  ^  ^—  (•- 

f. 

—  -                        || 

gp_u  1  1  v—  _ 

tr-l"T~ 

—  i  1  H 

moon  -  light            and 

ytji  1  1             N  i- 

star   -   light           we'll    boun 

|              1  M—  t 

d      o'er         the               bil     -    low. 
1  1  UK-I              1       II 

RF         —  ^            ^            •    r 

-J—       —  J-!  J— 

—  ^ 

9  0  

&J  it^H 

moon  -  light            and 

star   -   light            we'll 

-=  — 

bound       o'er          the 

M                        ^                           ^        ' 

bil     -    low. 

—  f  f  —  H 

^\5  S-'-~ 

^r^trp 
-i  • 

dim 
a 

P    ^^3 

|»       •    H 

«               • 

/^^\«     l^. 

i 

!                     >              II 

£%         i  ' 

»                   1*           || 

^^17  —  17  j  

^J-^ 

—&  —  :  

-r  F—  H 

Oh,  come,  maidens  come,  o'er  the  blue  rolling 

wave, 
The    lovely    should    still    be   the    care   of    the 

brave. 

Trancadillo,  Trancadillo,  &c. 
With  moonlight  and  starlight  we'll  bound  o'er  the 

billow, 

Bright  billow,  gay  billow,  &c. 
With  moonlight  and  starlight  we'll  bound  o'er  the 

billow. 

The   moon    'neath    yon    cloud   hid   her   silvery 

light  — 
Ye  are  come  —  like  our  fond  hopes  she  glows  in 

your  sight. 

Trancadillo,  Trancadillo,  &c. 
With  moonlight  and  lovelight  we'll  bound  o'er  the 

billow, 

Bright  billow,  gay  billow,  &c. 
With  moonlight  and  lovelight  we'll  bound  o'er  the 

billow. 

Wake  the  chorus  of  song,  and  our  oars  shall  keep 

time, 
While   our    hearts   gently  beat  to   the   musical 

chime. 

Trancadillo,  Trancadillo,  &c. 
With  oar-beat  and  heart-beat  we'll  bound  o'er  the 

billow, 

Bright  billow,  gay  billow,  &c. 
With  oar-beat  and  heart-beat,  we'll  bound  o'er  the 

billow. 


As  the  waves  gently  heave  under  zephyr's  soft 

sighs, 
So  the  waves  of  our  hearts  'neath  the  glance  of 

your  eyes. 

Trancadillo,  Trancadillo,  &c. 
With  eye-beam  and  heart-beam,  we'll  bound  o'er 

the  billow, 

Bright  billow,  gay  billow,  &c. 
With  eye-beam  and  heart-beam  we'll  bound  o'er 

the  billow. 

See,  the  helmsman  looks  forth  to  yon  beacon-lit 

isle  ; 

So  we  shape  our  hearts'  course  by  the  light  of 
your  smile. 

Trancadillo,  Trancadillo,  &c. 
With  love-light  and  smile-light  we'll  bound  o'er 
the  billow, 

Bright  billow,  gay  billow,  &c. 
With  love-light  and  smile-light  we'll  bound  o'er 
the  billow. 

And   when   on   life's  ocean   we  turn   our   slight 

prow, 
May  the  light-house  of  Hope  beam  like  this  on 

us  now. 

Life's  billow,  frail  billow,  &c. 
With  hope-light,  the  true-light,  we'll  bound  o'er 

life's  billow, 

Life's  billow,  frail  billow,  &c. 
With  hope-light,  the  true  light,  we'll  bound  o'er 

life's  billow. 


WAPPING    OLD    STAIRS. 

"  WAPPING  OLD  STAIRS,"  on  the  Thames,  has  witnessed  innumerable  partings  between 
Billy  Bowlegs  and  his  sweetheart,  with  her  face  hidden  under  his  broad  brim.  The  term 
old  stairs  is  used  simply  to  distinguish  the  place  from  the  new  stairs  at  Wapping,  which 
also  descend  to  the  water,  where,  no  doubt,  the  same  scenes  are  enacted ;  for  the  water- 


354 


OUR  FAMILIAR   SONGS. 


worn,  rat-gnawed  steps  are  not  older  than  love,  while  the  new  plank,  thrown  out  to-day  for 
parting  friends  to  cross,  is  not  more  fresh  and  bright.  The  song  was  written  by  JOHN 
PERCY,  an  eminent  English  ballad-composer  of  the  latter  half  of  the  last  century.  The 
song  ended  with  a  cloud  resting  upon  the  fair  fame  of  sailor  Tom ;  but  JAMES  POWELL. 
added  the  stanza  beginning : 

" « Dear  Molly,'  cried  Tom,  as  he  heaved  a  deep  sigh." 

Mark  Lemon's  wife,  who  was  a  fine  vocalist,  used  to  sing  this  old  favorite  of  her  husband's, 
while  the  fire  burned  bright,  and  he  beat  on  his  chair  with  his  pipe  for  her  sole  accom- 
paniment. 

Andante  con  espress.  ^ 


$=£* 


m 


Your  Mol-ly       has     nev-er    been    false,  she  de-clares,  Since 

-K- 


^  last  time  we  parted    at  Wapping  old  stairs,  When  I  swore  that  I  still  would  contin  -  ue  the  same,  And 


IT-! 


Tl »- 


1      M        iX 


gave    you     the   'bac-co   -   box  raark'd  with    my    name,  And  gave  you     the    'bac  -co  -  box 


-=!—*- 


£ 


!£ 


JL&£_         __»,  K_       [S  {i 

i  —  ^  c~a  S  r^-i 
—*-.  —  *<-*  M  13  —  J—  r- 

**    \  } 

—i  Ym  — 

(m     —  J  J__ajj  —  *!  4  *_    •        -  j^      •      y^ 
mark'd  with     my  name.  When     I  pass'd     a  whole  fortnight  be  - 

#%~7  i  f~  IT~           ~  1 

-^.3  J    *>    J    i    •— 

tween  decks  with  you,  Did     I 

E                   ^J    — 

tj             *^  ^p- 
pp 

^)3?u.    M  —  «  —  M  ^         ^~H~=i  —  f  — 

-F  [>        * 
—  a»    f    „    „ 

•  1      J 

if  r  ^ 

j   "^i    _j= 

—  pi  — 

w  $  r  ^  .p..    .     J  ^  r 

1  V  1  «  1  J 

—  ±_f  

\VAPPING  OLD  STAIRS, 
ad  lib. 


155 


e'er     give     a  kiss,  Tom,  to 

-N 


one     of  your  crew?  To     be     use-ful      and     kind,       with  my 


colla  voce. 


*^~^£       =3=    — f— 
f  -T1—*- * -<J-*- 


"r^1  " 


*  r  »  j  i    s     "ft  —      — f*> \— i •=* 

a±a  '    /   r*  J  ^  /    /  J 


Thorn -as        I     stay'd;  For     his       trow-sers       I   wash'd,  and     his   grog,  too,       I  made. 


i 


tempo. 


^  ^  ,m 


*=t 


?== 


3-= 


Tho'  you  promis'd  last  Sunday   to     walk  in  the  Mall,  With 


^^ 


=f 


sosten. 


1    •  i 


r*1   r  ^  x. 


v ^ 1^ 


-N \ 


3=t 


Su-san  f  rom  Deptf  ord,  and  likewise  with  Sal,   In      si  -  lence  I  stood,  your  un-kind-ness  to    hear,  And 


j— y        J    g= 

m f.  , — 


fii  J~  -v  JH^ 


^JgZ 


-N=^S- 


3tzi 


SF 


OUR  FAMILIAR  SONGS- 


iJUft—  g—  —  ^  ps  ^—      =T      TT 

-z*q   ^    M±=^=*-      J    J     f-g=f  =^= 

on   -    ly       up  -braid  -  ed      my 

-a^-a  *  ^  .     ^--afe—  *-       ^  —  ^  J  — 
Tom  with       a     tear,  And     on  -  ly       up  -   braid  -  ed     my 

rr-ff  f^         Y  T 
g)3L  —  N:  —             —  ^  —  =j    ^» 

^_  =3  1  0  —  0  1 
*/ 

"^P      ^     [  =  •---N-H   J     ^     -| 

lent  *                 —  —  *  

A  i     '•  j  J  ij  J!-r 

Jr'g^.J^JjjJjyJL 

fe-^-     t-if    * 

Tom     with      a    tear.   Why  should  J 

5al,   or  should  Su-san    than       me     be  more  priz'd?For    the 

tffi      r-1      |                  MJ            =F 

IE>  —         F    =1  ^*                       ^  ~&. 

pL_M_U=^L-L 
«o 

^  C  —  «i  —  J  j-T-W       1 

|                                                                ^                                                                                                   0                                           •                           r 

-— 

'           ~^s                                                                                        p                      -*-                                           >^- 

frlrc                           is    ^ 

*        t(*                                                             1                                         ^            ^ 

iS^'fi  f..  '  E         "j"1  : 

/              1        if 

heart      that    is  true,  Tom,  should  ne'er    be  de  -  spis'd.  Then  be    cou-stant     and     kind,       nor  your 


5£ 


-=»— S 


i 


1     X 


- 


^it=a 


Mol  -  ly       for  -  sake,     Still  your     trow  -  sers       I'll  wash,  and    your    grog,   too,     I'll  make. 


"  Dear  Molly!"  cried  Tom,  as  heaved  a  deep  sigh, 
And  the  crystalline  tear  stood  afloat  in  each  eye, 
"  I  prithee,  my  love,  my  unkindness  forgive, 
And  I  ne'er  more  will  slight  thee  as  long  as  I  live: 
Neither  Susan  nor  Sal  shall  again  grieve  my  dear, 
No  more  from  thine  eye  will  thy  Tom  force  a  tear: 
Then  be  cheerful  and  gay,  nor  thy  Thomas  forsake, 
But  his  trousers  still  wash,  and  his  grog,  too,  still  make." 


THE  JOLLY    YOUNU    WATERMAN.  157 

THE  JOLLY  YOUNG  WATERMAN. 

CHARLES  DIBDIN,  the  great  English  sea-song  writer,  was  also  an  actor  and  a  dramatist. 
But  his  other  talents  were  overshadowed  by  the  one  for  which  he  stands  preeminent.  He 
was  born  at  Southampton,  England,  in  1745,  and  was  educated  with  a  view  to  the  church. 
When  a  boy,  he  sang  in  Winchester,  and  when  sixteen  years  old,  in  London.  He  produced 
an  opera  called  "The  Shepherd's  Artifice,"  which  was  brought  out  at  Covent  Garden 
Theatre,  of  which  he  became  musical  manager  seventeen  years  later.  He  wrote  for  the 
London  stage  with  great  industry  for  twenty  years,  and  he  says  that  for  all  that,  work, 
which  included  one  hundred  operas,  he  received,  including  his  salaries  and  several  benefits, 
only  £5,500.  Much  of  this  illiberality  he  charges  upon  Garrick.  In  1791,  he  gave  the  first 
of  a  series  of  entertainments  of  his  own  invention.  They  were  entitled  "  The  Whim  of 
the  Moment,"  and  consisted  of  songs,  recitations,  etc.  He  built  a  little  theatre  in  the 
Strand,  called  "  Sans  Souci."  It  was  a  gem;  and  Dibdin  alone  planned  it,  painted  and  deco- 
rated it,  and  wrote  for  its  stage  both  the  words  and  music  of  the  recitations  and  songs 
which  he  gave  there  to  an  "  organized  piano-forte,"  which  he  had  invented.  It  proved  an 
immense  success,  and  song  after  song,  of  the  thousand  which  he  wrote,  there  awoke 
'echoes  that  were  never  to  die.  Still,  Dibdiu  had  but  little  scientific  musical  education,  and 
could  not  write  accompaniments  for  his  own  exquisite  airs,  although  he  sang  them  glori- 
ously. He  somewhere  says :  "  Those  who  get  at  the  force  and  meaning  of  the  words,  and 
pronounce  them  as  they  sing,  with  the  same  sensibility  and  expression  as  it  would  require 
in  speaking,  possess  an  accomplishment  in  singing  beyond  what  all  the  art  in  the 
world  can  convey ;  and  such,  even  when  they  venture  upon  cantabiles  and  cadences,  will 
have  better,  because  more  natural,  execution  than  those  who  fancy  they  have  reached 
perfection  in  singing,  by  stretching  and  torturing  their  voices  into  mere  instruments." 

In  the  introduction  to  his  collected  songs,  he  says :  "  A  friend  of  mine,  one  evening, 
dropped  into  a  coffee-house,  where  a  number  of  literary  jurymen  were  holding  an  inquest 
over  my  murdered  reputation.  He  humored  the  jest,  and,  before  he  had  finished,  proved 
to  the  satisfaction  of  every  one  that '  Poor  Jack '  was  a  posthumous  work  of  Dr.  Johnson's ; 
that  the  'Eace  Horse'  was  written  by  the  jockey  who  rode  the  famous  '  Flying  Childers,' 
and  that  '  Blow  high,  Blow  low/  was  the  production  of  Admiral  Keppel,  who  dictated  the 
words  to  his  secretary,  as  he  lay  in  his  cot,  after  the  memorable  battle  of  the  27th  of 
July,  '  waiting  for  the  French  to  try  their  force  with  him  handsomely  next  morning.'" 

Air,  as  well  as  words,  of  the  "Jolly  Young  Waterman,"  are  Dibdin's,  and  the  song 
was  produced  in  his  entertainment  of  "The  Waterman."    Dibdin  died  July  25,  1814. 
This  piece  was  one  of  the  most  famous  sung  by  Braham  and  Incledon. 


*r* 

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And     did    you  not  hear 
.  "What  sights    of  fine  folks 
.   And    yet,    but  to    see 

1  1        r- 

of    a      jol  -  ly  young  wa  -  ter  -man,  "Who       at  Black 
he  oft  row'd  in     his    wher-ry  ;  'Twas  clean'd  out    so 
how  strangely  things  hap-pen,  As    he    row'd       a  -  long, 

-  fri  -  ar's  bridge 
nice,  and    so 
thinking   of 

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158 


OUR  FAMILIAR  SONGS. 


—1^—0.- 


used  for   to      ply;      And  he      fcath  -  erM  his    oars      with  nuch    skill  and  dex  -  ter  -   i    -    ty, 
painted  with  -  al;      He  was     al   -  ways  "first  oars"  when  the     fine    ci  -  ty        la  -  dies     In    a 
noth-ing    at       all,      He  was   ply'd     by      a       dam   -  sel     so       love-ly    and    charming,  That  she 


— i ^™  — i — ~F"*^™^5ZZ 

^^  m 


Winning  each  heart  and  de -light  -  ing  each  eye.    He  look'd  so    neat,        and  rowrd    so    stead-i  -   ly, 
par-ty     to     Ra-  ne  -  high  went,  or  Vauxhall,  And  oft-  times  would  they  be  giggling  and  leer  •    ing; 
smil'd,  and  so  straightway  in  love    he  did   f all; And  would  this  young  damsel  but  bun-ish  his  sor-row, 


^^Et4l?=M^lllP=:  (_--  -_-• 

— g -0 0   '     g ^ 1  —  > 0 -4 

•*•  •*•  > — y         —    "*" 


& 


=^=f=+*=&  3S^^H^ 

-0-^- — ^      •^%l    £— Irf— f— i   — b— f-^ — 

V        ,J 


•"^ 
The      maid  -ens  all  flock'd  in  his    boat      so    read-i  -  ly ; 

But 'twas  all   one    to    Tom,  their  gib-ing  and  jeer   -ing; 
He'd        wed  her     to  -  night,  be  -  fore      e'en  to  -  morrow, 


And  he 

For 

And 


j=-9— ^zg=j=±j=_=S=gi=^ 


eyed    th^  young  rogues  with  so     charm  -ing    an     air,       He      eyed    the  younjr  rogues  with    so 
in.!,'    or       lik  -  ing    he         lit    -    tie    did    care,      For       lov  -  ing  '  or       lik  -  ing      he 
how  should  thin    wa-ter-man     ev    -    er  know  care,      And     how  should  this   wa-ter-man 


THE  JOLLY  YOUNG   WATERMAN. 


159 


=££=  Efc=  EMi  E^=*b=^  fl 


charm  -  ing  an  air,.  That  this  wa-ter  -man  ne'er  was  in 
lit  -  tie  did  care,  For  this  wa  -  ter  -  man  ne'er  was  in 
ev  -  er  know  care,  When  he's  mar  -  ried  and  ne'er  was  in 


want  of  a  fare, 
want  of  a  fare, 
want  of  a  fare. 


jjj— 


JAMIE'S  ON  THE  STORMY  SEA. 

THERE  is  no  clue  whatever  to  the  authorship  of  these  words.  The  music  was  com, 
posed  by  BERNARD  COVERT,  now  a  very  aged  man,  but  hale  and  hearty,  living  at  Jamaica, 
Long  Island,  where  he  was  born.  He  dresses  quaintly,  like  an  old  Continental,  and  with 
voice  unimpaired  still  sings  his  own  songs  to  perfection.  Within  a  few  years,  he  has  trav- 
elled with  a  concert  company. 


1.  Ere       the  twi  -  light      bat      was    flit  -  ting,      In      the     sun  -  set, 


— * r— — — f— r P         f     f— 

=5 yi j?P±^3 s p      U— nzE 


her      knit  -  ting, 
-f « f— 


1 


-    -js s — [s js-4   -"I*      — jx—  -^=^— f^ij— ,1— 


Sang 


r  i 

sit    -  ting       Un  -  der  -  neath   her     thres  -  hold    tree. 


And     as      day  -  light    died      be  -  fore     us,    And       the   ves  -  per      star     shone    o'er 


a^ — r a=p 

— 4  — 0 4 ^ — 

— 1 — 0 f f 


Fit    -    ful  rose 


ten    -  der       cho   -  rus,     "Ja  -  mie's    on      the      storm 


160 


OUR  FAMILIAR   SONGX. 


Ere  the  twilight  bat  was  flitting, 
In  the  sunset,  at  her  knitting, 
Sang  a  lonely  maiden,  sitting 

Underneath  her  threshold  tree ; 
And  as  daylight  died  before  us, 
And  the  vesper  star  shone  o'er  us, 
Fitful  rose  her  tender  chorus, 

'•Jamie's  on  the  stormy  sea." 

Curfew  bells,  remotely  ringing, 
Mingled  with  that  sweet  voice  singing, 
And  the  last  red  ray  seemed  clinging 

Lingering!}'  to  tower  and  tree. 
Nearer  as  I  came,  and  nearer, 
Finer  rose  the  notes,  and  clearer ; 
Oh  !  'twas  charming  thus  to  hear  her,  — 

"Jamie's  on  the  stormy  sea." 


Blow,  thou  west  wind,  blandly  hover, 
Round  the  bark  that  bears  my  lover; 
Blow,  and  waft  him  softly  over 

To  his  own  dear  home  and  me ; 
For  when  night  winds  rend  the  willow, 
Sleep  forsakes  my  lonely  pillow, 
Thinking  of  the  raging  billow,— 

Jamie's  on  the  stormy  sea." 

How  could  I  but  list,  but  linger, 
To  the  song,  and  near  the  singer, 
Sweetly  wooing  heaven  to  bring  her 

Jamie  from  the  stormy  sea. 
And  while  yet  her  lips  did  name  me, 
Forth  I  sprang,  my  heart  o'ercame  me, 
"  Grieve  no  more,  love,  I  am  Jamie, 

Home  returned  to  love  and  thee." 


THE   LASS  THAT   LOVES  A   SAILOR. 

THIS  song,  of  which  both  words  and  music  were  his,  was  the  last  that  CHARLES  DIBDIN 
wrote.  He  died  in  1814,  and  his  son,  Thomas  Dibdin,  wrote  the  following  stanzas  upon  his 
monument,  at  Greenwich : 


Stop  I  shipmate,  stop !    He  can't  be  dead, 

His  lay  yet  lives  to  memory  dear: 
His  spirit,  merely  shot  ahead, 

Will  yet  command  Jack's  smile  and  tear! 
Still  in  my  ear  the  songs  resound, 

That  stemmed  rebellion  at  the  Nore  I 
Avast!  each  hope  of  mirth's  aground, 

Should  Charley  be  indeed  no  more! 

The  evening  watch,  the  sounding  lead, 

Will  sadly  miss  old  Charley's  line. 
"  Saturday  Night"  may  go  to  bed, — 
His  sun  is  set,  no  more  to  shine ! 
"  Sweethearts  and  "Wives,"  though  we  may  sing, 

And  toast,  at  sea,  the  girls  on  shore ; 
Yet  now,  'tis  quite  another  thing, 

Since  Charley  spins  the  yarn  no  more  I 

"Jack  Rattlin's"  story  now  who'll  tell? 

Or  chronicle  each  boatswain  brave? 
The  sailor's  kind  historian  fell 

With  him  who  sung  the  "  Soldier's  Grave ! " 


"  Poor  Jack  1 "  "  Tom  Bowling ! "  but  belay ! 

Starboard  and  larboard,  aft  and  fore, 
Each  from  his  brow  may  swab  the  spray, 

Since  tuneful  Charley  u  no  more! 

The  capstan,  compass,  and  the  log 

Will  oft  his  Muse  to  memory  bring; 
And  when  all  hands  wheel  round  the  grog, 

They'll  drink  and  blubber  as  they  sing. 
For  grog  was  often  Charley's  theme, 

A  double  spirit  then  it  bore ; 
It  sometimes  seems  to  me  a  dream, 

That  such  a  spirit  is  no  more. 

It  smoothed  the  tempest,  cheered  the  calm, 

Made  each  a  hero  at  his  gun ; 
It  even  proved  for  foes  a  balm, 

Soon  as  the  angry  fight  was  done. 
Then,  shipmate,  check  that  rising  sigh 

He's  only  gone  ahead  before ; 
For  even  foremast  men  must  die, 

As  well  as  Charley,  now  no  more ! 


1.  The    moon     on  the     o  -     cean  was  dim'd      by   a     rip  -  pie,   Af  -  ford  -  ing    a   che  -  quered 


z-^-sw 


LOVES  A  SAIL  on. 


161 


-* — I        I  — t- 

£=3==£l 


:=3z=p=c: 


light; 


The        ga7>      J°l   -  ty  tars    pass'd  the     word     for     a     tip  -  pie,  And  the 


toast,   for  'twas   Sat  -  ur  -  day       night. 


Some          sweet  -  heart   or      wife,      He 


^E*33=  =^f  f  J    J    l^^q=^F 

— ^?— «—  =^—       —w—r^* « * ' 


lov'd     as  his  life,       Each    drank,    and  wish'd    he  could  hail  her ;  But  the  standing  toast  that 


pleas'd  the  most, Was  "the  wind  that  blows,  the    ship  that  goes,  And  the  lass  that  loves  a      sai  -  lor." 


Some   drank   "  the  Queen,"  some  "our     brave 
ships," 

And  some  "the  Constitution;  " 
Some,  "  may  our  foes    and  all  such  rips 

Yield  to  English  resolution!" 
That  fate  might  bless  some  Poll  or  Bess, 

And  that  they  soon  might  hail  her; 
But  the  standing  toast  that  pleased  the  most, 

Was  "  the  wind  that  blows,  the  ship  that  goes, 
And  the  lass  that  loves  a  sailor." 


Some   drank     "the    Prince,"     and   some    "our 
land," 

This  glorious  land  of  Freedom; 
Some,  "that  our  tars  may  never  want 

Heroes  bold  to  lead  them  ;  " 
That  she  who's  in  distress  may  find 

Such  friends  that  ne'er  will  fail  her  ; 
But  the  standing  toast  that  pleased  the  most, 

Was  "the  wind  that  blows,  the  ship  that  goes» 
And  the  lass  that  loves  a  sailor." 


(11) 


162 


OUR   FAMILIAR   SONGHi. 

POOR    TOM. 


THIS  song  of  DIBDIN'S  was  composed  for  his  entertainment  of  "  The  Waterman,"  one 
of  the  series  he  gave  in  his  own  theatre.  One  can  hardly  sing  it  without  recalling  Silas 
Wegg's  unspeakably  ridiculous  application  of  it,  when  he  dropped  into  poetry  in  Boffin's 
Bower. 

>  *     N 


£3 


Nev  -  er  - 


^^. 

1.  Then,  fare-well  I    my  trim -built  wher-ry,    Oars,  and  coat,    and  badgp,  fare-well! 

2.  But      to  hope    and  peace     a     stran-ger,     In      the   bat  -  tie's    heat  I'll        go,  Where,  ex  - 

3.  Then,  may- hap,  when  homeward  steer -ing,  With    the  news    my    messmates  come,  E  -  ven 


m 


U  J  •)   JlT 


more       at      Chel  -  sea        fer  -  ry,  Shall  your  Thorn  -  as     take       a       spell ;  Then,  fare 

pos'd       to       ev  -  'ry        dan  -  ger,  Some  friend  -  ly      ball     may     lay      me       low,     But      to 
you,      my      sto  -  ry       hear -ing,  With      a      sigh,  may    cry  "poor   Tom!"  Then,  may 


*J  — * —  —  NS-«-^ 

-    well!  my     trim -built  wher-ry.    Oars,  and  coat,  and  badge,  fare   -  weTTl  Nev-  er - 

hope  and   peace     a  stran-ger,     In  the      bat     -  tie's  heat     I'll           go,  Where,  ex,  • 

-    hap,  when  home-ward  steer- mg,  With  the  news  my  mess-mates       come,  E  -  ven 


more    at  Chel -sea       fer-ry      Shall  your   Thorn    -    as  take     a       spell, Shall  your 

ry     dan-ger,  Some  friendly    ball....  mav  lay    me      low, Some  f ricnd-ly 

jyou.  my  _sto- ry      hear-ing,    With    a       sigh may  cry  "  poor  Tom !» With     a 


riten. 


Thorn  -  as  take  a  spell, 
ball  may  lay  me  low. 
sigh,  /nay  cry  "poor  Tom!" 


lea 


G^     -  .^  —  *    3  —  \H 

I      N«             V» 

—  .  — 

—  .  — 

—  .  — 

—  -  —  H 

fisL-B  —  fj   r   j  «  J_ 
^p       —  -—  — 

~i  

It 

TOM    BOWLING. 

"TOM  BOWLING"  is  one  of  CHAKLES  DIBDIN'S  most  characteristic  productions. 
The  original  of  the  song  was  his  oldest  brother,  Tom,  many  years  his  senior.  He  was  a 
noble  tar,  and  was  for  a  long  time  captain  of  a  vessel  in  the  India  service.  He  married  in 
Calcutta,  after  obtaining  the  first  marriage  license  ever  granted  in  India.  His  wife  says  in 
one  of  her  letters :  "  I  name  him,  and  think  him,  my  Tom  of  ten  millions ;  ten  thousand  is 
not  giving  him  his  full  value.*'  He  died  while  his  famous  brother  Charles  was  still  very 
young ;  but  his  memory  will  long  live  in  "  Tom  Bowling."  The  song,  of  which  the  air  also 
is  Dibdin's,  was  introduced  into  the  author's  play  called  "  The  Oddities." 

May  not  Tom  Bowling  have  been  the  model  of  the  so-called  new  "school"  of  poetry, 
in  which  Bret  Harte  and  John  Hay  are  the  most  conspicuous  pupils? 


_*,— H*l=F= 

-=§E^E^f^E 


& 


Here,  a    sheer  hulk,  lies    poor      Tom  Bowl  ins,    The  dar  -ling       of      our       crew; 


No 


more  he'll   hear     the       tern      -   pest   howl  -  ing,  For  death  has  broach'd  him      to. 


His 


164 


OUR  FAMILIAR  SONGS. 


form      was  of       the         man    -    Hest  beau  -  ty,  His    heart    was    kind   and       soft; 

h 


y    " 


cres. 


rf        5          5 


V 


•-       -*^»=, 
_z|—  EEn: 

P^^t          i 


(:  ^ 

_         _  ^=  ^fefcr 


.  ad  lib 


=I^!E 


Faith -ful    be -low,    he      did       his       du  -  ty,   But  now    he's    gone    a    -    loft, But 

1  IZg- —       ~  I    ^ — J j/*~ 0 L,^ <? U 


_     __ 


now    ht-'s    gone     a  -  loft 


5Ef^| 

— .,_    .]. — I—  ^^^     j ^ _j r**^— j  ^C^    w^ '"' 

2.     Tom      nev-er  from  his    word      de  -  part  -  ed,  His      vir  -  tues  were     so       rare;....        His 

J 


^    g: 


(2-- 


I  • 1  ^^      * 


*j*=-l=^ 


,-<2- 


*=3 


friends  were  ma- ny,         and....    true- heart  -  ed,  His     Poll    was    kind     and       fal?^--  And 


TOM  BOWLING. 


165 


_ 


then       he'd  sing    so         blithe        and    jol  -    ly,    Ah!  ma-ny'a  the  time    and       oft; But 


= 

-± 


%=±3sssz3=£= 

- — i-g- ; — -— 

-z5-       -r 


-i 

?= 


^sflflT  lib. 


mirth         is  turn'd    to       mel    -      an  -  chol  -ly,  For  Tom     i9      gone      a    -    loft, . 


And 


§z^b=g 


^^ 

= 


now    ho's    gone     a  -  loft. 


colla  -voce. 


ritard. 


f-~m 

f-  f 


^^^afe^^^E-r~-^g=£ 

5r  i,          i  F  jIJ=z?=*^j»3:U^^L: 


3.  Yet  shall  poor  Tom  find    pleas  -  ant    weather,  When  He,    who     all    com  -  mands,          Shall 


166 


OUR  FAMILIAR   SONGH. 


~72 — *_•  — T         ^afa: -*t         .        *~    k  K     I  -T. 

givci to  call    life's"  Trew  to-geth-er,    The   word    to      pipe        all    hands;         Thus 

fc 


/*/ 


'TSi Z . -^  — —  -, 

if-j*— g-}g    zf==^.^^z3pt^±=i5: 
t^ — — I — • — ; — -^ * — 


death,    who  kings  and         tars         des  -  patch-es,    In     vain    Tom's  life   hath        doff'd,....   For 


3PFt=^t==*=i=z=^* 


though       his    bo  -    dy's     un     -    der  hatch  -es,  His  soul      is      gone      a    -    loft, 


EEE*ii: 


soul      is         gone a    -    loft 


_^^_ 1 1 

£^i:  3 


Here,  a  sheer  hulk,  lies  poor  Tom  Bowling, 

The  darling  of  our  crew ; 
No  more  he'll  hear  the  tempest  howling, 

For  death  has  broached  him  to. 
His  form  was  of  the  manliest  beauty, 

His  heart  was  kind  and  soft; 
Faithful  below,  he  did  his  duty, 

But  now  he's  gone  aloft. 

Tom  never  from  his  word  departed, 

His  virtues  were  so  rare  ; 
His  friends  were  many,  and  true-hearted, 

His  Poll  was  kind  and  fair; 


And  then  he'd  sing  so  blithe  and  jolly, 

Ah  !  many's  the  time  and  oft; 
But  mirth  is  turned  to  melancholy, 

For  Tom  is*  gone  aloft. 

Yet  shall  poor  Tom  find  pleasant  weather, 

When  He,  who  all  commands, 
Shall  give,  to  call  life's  crew  together, 

The  word  to  pipe  all  hands; 
Thus  death,  who  kings  and  tars  despatches> 

In  vain  Tom's  life  hath  doff'd, 
For  though  his  body's  under  hatches, 

His  soul  is  gone  aloft. 


THE   ARETHUSA.  1<J7 

THE    ARETHUSA. 

PRINCE  HOARE,  who  wrote  the  words  of  "The  Arethusa,"  was  born  in  Bath,  England, 
In  1755.  His  father  was  a  painter,  and  the  son  studied  the  art  with  him,  and  became  some- 
what noted  as  a  painter  of  portraits  and  historical  pictures.  He  went  to  Rome  to  continue 
painting,  but  finally  relinquished  that  pursuit,  and  adopted  literature  as  a  profession.  In 
eleven  years,  he  wrote  twenty  plays ;  some  of  them  successful  comic  operas,  and  musical 
farces.  One  of  these  is  "  No  Song,  no  Supper,"  another  is  "  Lock  and  Key."  He  died  at 
Brighton,  December  22,  1834. 

The  "Arethusa"  was  a  frigate  of  850  tons,  carrying  thirty-two  guns.  She  was  built  by 
the  French,  from  whom  she  was  captured,  by  two  British  frigates,  in  Audierne  Bay,  May 
18,  1759.  In  1778,  she  was  commissioned  for  active  service  in  the  British  navy,  and  sailed 
in  the  fleet  of  Admiral  Keppel.  In  June,  she  fought  a  drawn  battle  with  the  French  frig- 
ate, "  Belle  Poule,"  in  which  she  lost  eight  men  killed,  and  thirty-six  wounded,  and  was  so 
badly  knocked  to  pieces  that  she  had  to  be  towed  back  to  the  fleet.  Her  antagonist  lost 
forty-eight  killed,  and  fifty  wounded.  In  March,  1779,  the  "Arethusa,"  trying  to  escape  a 
pursuing  French  line-of-battle-ship,  struck  in  the  night  on  a  reef  near  Molines,  in  the 
British  channel,  and  went  to  pieces.  All  on  board  except  one  boat's  crew  were  made 
prisoners. 

The  music  of  "The  Arethusa"  is  attributed  to  WILLIAM  SHIELD;  but  Samuel  Lover 
says  it  was  composed  by  CAROLAN,  an  Irish  minstrel,  and  "  has  been  shabbily  purloined  by 
Shield."  Some  coDections  of  English  music  speak  of  it  as  arranged  by  Shield,  from  an 
ancient  melody. 


Allegro. 
Con  Spirito. 


1.  Come    all      ye     jol   -  ly       sai  -   lors  bold,  "Whose  hearts  are  cast       in       hon -or's  mould,  While 


^-^^=•=1? 


Eng-land's  glo   -  ry      I      un  -  fold,  Huz  -  za    for  the   A  -   iv  -  thu    -  sa ! 


3E=^=u— 4+^g^ggfe 
3==£=  ^HSr-^s — ±j*LJ-±!2 ?^r  i  EJ 

9  9  ^^        *ljE.        "^^f 

•  ~^i  5*  9 

•  ^^  • 


168 


•Ji'll   FAMILIAlt  SONGti. 


.u- ^ 0 .- — *    *         -K        I  - — i    f      •      'f^f       ""*'•         P^! —  J 


She  is          a     fri  -  gate,    tight      and  brave,    As       ev    -    er      stemm'd  the 


>    p — A_ ii x — iq 

~*~~~T"» ~« JJ3H '      I 
HZ ^ 


i — 


t=3 


dashing  wave;       Her  men      are  staunch  to  their     fav-'rite    launch,    And  when  the        foe      shall 


t  \*9  :       i~ v \  A I  » i 

^M^— ^=3 1=    -±g=|--  ^ 1-  -4 


3=? 


meet  our      fire, 


Soon  -er  than  strike,  we'll   all         ex  -  pire,     On      board  of  the  A  -    re 


* 


-    thu    -    sa. 


p=i: 


d 0 ^      * — i— - 


«= 


2.  "Twaswith   the  spring  fleet    she    went  out.   The    Engr  -  lish  Channel  to      cruise    a -bout.  When 
6.  On      deck    five   huu-dred   men    did  dance,  The    stout  -  est  they  could    find      in  France,  We 


THE  ABE  THUS  A. 


169 


four  French  sail,    in  show   so  stout,  B  >re  down  on  the  A  -    re  -  thu  -    sa. 
with  two     huu-dml   did    :id  -vance,  Ou    board  of  the  A   -    re  -  thu  -    ea. 


Ej— d==i*- 
tt J=J u 


The   fam'd  Belle  Poule  straight  ahead      did   lie,       The       A    -    re    -    thu    -    sa 
Our        cap   -  taiu  hail'd  the  Frenchmen,  "  ho!"  The      French  -men   they        cried 


izi*:  ==  ~=         r 


_* t — ipq. =q *— .1 

— i 1 — j_.« ___ _ t x 


f      9   ^ — *-— f-F»— 


scorn'dto    fly;    Not  a   sheet,   or   a  tack,    Or   a      brace  did  she  slack,Tho'  the  Frenchmen  laugh'd,  and 
out,"  hel-lo !  "  "Bear    down,  d'ye     see,     To  our     ad  -  miral's  lee." "  No,no,"  said   the       Frenchmen, 


Js — i- — j — h 


-__, >. i^       .^ 


=£=3=^ 


thought  it      stuff.  But  they  knew  not  the  hand -ful  of  men,       so    tough,  On      board  of  the  A  -   re  - 
"that    can't  be ;""  Then     I        must      lug     you    a  -  long  with  me,"  Says       the    sau-cy  A  -   re - 


^1 


4*3        -*        f 


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-|—  t^.«_,_*_-_ 

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p=it=±==ifl^ 


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-Z._-*JF^i-±as>—      •—%—-• — j — p- 


t        "±iJ3~t 


170 


OUR  FAMILIAR  SONOS. 


4.  The    fight    was    off     the    Frenchman's  land,  We  drove  them  back      up  -  on  their  strand,  For  we 


j^Pj— ^— J=E£ 


=:t=p=*—    I       €       4=q 


fought   till     not      a  stick  would  stand  Of  the  gal  -  lant      A   -   re  -  thu  -    sa. 

^Gi_ ^          ^^          I.' 


:          EBE^dE    Es=j^Ed 


-^- 0- 


And       now  we've  driv'n  the       foe         a  -  shore,  Nev  -  er    to  fight     with 

i J__J_.   ~— 




_  _   ^ ^T.T  -r          ^  . 

_    \ IZJJ \ _  5         \ . 

z-lzi          —I—  —I— 

I_l J 


E|E 


Britons  more1,        Let  each     fill    a  glass      to  his      fav  - 'rite       lass,         A  health   to  the  captain,  and 


. 


THE   ARETHUSA. 


Ill 


of -fi -cers,  true,       And  all    that  be  -  long    to  the  jo    -    vial   crew,    On      board  of  the  A-    re - 

/IN          " 


i  .         "I H_f  i         •>      ~'i  _^ _\ 

^"""""1          1 


PTV 

1       -'* 

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CAPTAIN    KIDD. 

CAPTAIN  KIDD  was  not  named  Robert,  and  was  not  a  pirate, — so  say  the  historians  of 
latest  date,  in  spite  of  tradition  and  old  songs.  His  name  was  William,  and  he  was  born  in 
Greenock,  Scotland,  in  1650.  He  followed  the  sea  from  his  youth,  and  was  sent  by  the 
British  government  against  pirates.  He  was  finally  accused  of  turning  pirate  himself,  and 
of  murdering  one  of  his  men.  He  landed  at  Boston,  and  was  arrested  by  the  Governor, 
and  sent  to  England.  There  he  received  a  scandalously  unfair  trial ;  being  allowed  no 
counsel,  and  no  opportunity  to  send  for  witnesses  or  papers,  although  he  stoutly  protested 
his  innocence,  and  his  ability  to  clear  himself  from  both  charges.  He  was  hanged,  with 
nine  of  his  associates,  in  London,  May  24,  1701.  The  wonderful  tales  of  his  treasure,  hid- 
den somewhere  on  the  American  coast,  have  gone  from  lip  to  lip  for  more  than  a  century  ; 
and  every  school-boy  still  feels  an  impulse,  at  some  time,  to  start  off  with  spade  and  pick- 
axe, iD  search  of  the  buried  gold.  Poe's  ingenious  story  of  "  The  Gold  Bug"  is  founded 
upon  this  legend.  I  can  learn  nothing  of  the  history  of  the  ballad,  but  it  is  evidently  of 
.English  origin. 


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^    ^    ^ 


OUR    FAMILIAR    SONGS. 

XTN 


*S  Zte*-    *•-?— *SJ          /      Jn 

R— *— p^EjE^gE  E;E^[ 


n 
-  tains,  bold    and    brave,  hear    our    cries ;  You  cap-tains,  brave  and  bold,    tho'    you 


cap  -  tains,  bold    ana    Drave,  near    our    cries ;  i  ou  cap-iams,  orave  aim  ooia,    tno7    you 

_  -         _       /TN  s 

X         >         £         &       i  i/         • 


p=r — p-j~: — ^~gE 

— 5« 5—*Jti "if* — —^—i^^f.~ 


^.TnTi"        un  -  con  -  trolled,      :||  Don't,      for      the    sake      of     gold,    lose    your       souls.||: 


2*y  it'-  »  *    •* 

* — t    ' — tr 


You  captains,  bold  and  brave,  hear  our  cries,  hear 

our  cries, 

You  captains,  bold  and  brave,  hear  our  cries ; 
You   captains,   brave   and   bold,  tho'   you   seem 

uncontrolled, 
Don't,  for  the  sake  of  gold,  lose  your  souls. 

My  name  was  Robert  Kidd,  when  I  sailed,  when 

I  sailed, 

My  name  was  Robert  Kidd,  when  I  sailed ; 
My  name  was  Robert  Kidd,  God's  laws  I  did  for- 
bid, 
And  so  wickedly  I  did,  when  I  sailed. 

My  parents  taught  me  well,  when  I  sailed,  when 

I  sailed, 

My  parents  taught  me  well,  when  I  sailed ; 
My  parents  taught  me  well,  to  shun  the  gates  of 

hell, 
But  against  them  I  rebelled,  when  I  sailed. 

I  cursed  my  father  dear,  when  I  sailed,  when  I 

sailed, 

I  cursed  my  father  dear,  when  I  sailed; 
I  cursed  my  father  dear,  and  her  that  did  me 

bear, 
And  so  wickedly  did  swear,  when  I.  sailed. 

I   made   a  solemn  vow,  when  I   sailed,  when  I 

sailed, 

I  made  a  solemn  vow,  when  I  sailed ; 
I    made    a    solemn  vow,   to    God    I  would   not 

bow, 
Nor  myself  one  prayer  allow,  as  I  sailed. 

I'd  a  bible  in  my  hand,  when  1  sailed,  when  I 

sailed, 

I'd  a  bible  in  my  hand,  when  I  sailed; 
I'd  a  bible  in   my  hand,   by   my  father's  great 

command, 
And  sunk  it  in  the  sand,  when  I  sailed. 


I  murdered  William  Moore,  as  I  sailed,  as  I  sailed, 
I  murdered  William  Moore,  as  I  sailed ; 

I  murdered  William  Moore,  and  left  him  in  his 

gore, 
Not  many  leagues  from  shore,  as  I  sailed. 

And  being  cruel  still,  as  I  sailed,  as  I  sailed, 

And  being  cruel  still,  as  I  sailed ; 
And  being  cruel  still,  my  gunner  I  did  kill, 

And  his  precious  blood  did  spill,  as  I  sailed. 

My  mate  was  sick  and  died,  as  I  sailed,  as  I  sailed, 
My  mate  was  sick  and  died,  as  I  sailed ; 

My  mate  was  sick  and  died,  which    me    much 

terrified, 
When  he  called  me  to  his  bedside,  as  I  sailed. 

And  unto  me  did  say,  see  me  die,  see  me  die, 

And  unto  me  did  say,  see  me  die  ; 
And  unto  me  did  say,  take  warning,  now,  by  me, 

There  comes  a  reckoning  day,  you  must  die. 

You  cannot  then  withstand,  when  you  die,  when. 

you  die, 

You  cannot  then  withstand,  when  you  die, 
You  cannot  then  withstand  the  judgment  of  God's 

hand, 
But,  bound  then  in  iron  bands,  you  must  die. 

I  was  sick,  and  nigh  to  death,  as  I  sailed,  as  I 

sailed, 

I  was  sick,  and  nigh  to  death,  as  1  sailed ; 
I  was  sick,  and  nigh  to  death,  and  I  vowed  at 

every  breath, 
To  walk  in  wisdom's  ways,  as  I  sailed. 

I  thought  I  was  undone,  as  I  sailed,  as  I  sailed, 
I  thought  I  was  undone,  as  I  sailed  ; 

I  thought  I  was  undone,  and  my  wicked  glass  had 

run, 
But  health  did  soon  return  as  I  sailed. 


CAPTAIN  KIDD. 


173 


My  repentance  lasted  not,  as  1  sailed,  as  1  sailed, 
My  repentance  lasted  not,  as  I  sailed ; 

My  repentance  lasted  not,  my  vows  I  soon  forgot, 
Damnation's  my  just  lot,  as  I  sailed. 

I  steered  from  sound  to  sound,  as  I  sailed,  as  I 

sailed, 

I  steered  from  sound  to  sound,  as  I  sailed ; 
I  steered  from  sound  to  sound,  and  many  ships  I 

found, 
And  most  of  them  I  burned,  as  I  sailed. 

I  spyed  three  ships  from  France,  as  I  sailed,  as  I 

sailed, 

I  spyed  three  ships  from  France,  as  I  sailed ; 
I  spyed  three  ships  from  France,  to  them  I  did 

advance, 
And  took  them  all  by  chance,  as  1  sailed. 

I  spyed  three  ships  of  Spain,  as   I   sailed,  as  I 

sailed, 

I  spyed  three  ships  of  Spain,  as  I  sailed ; 
I  spyed  three  ships  of  Spain,  I   fired  on  them 

amain, 
Till  most  of  them  was  slain,  as  I  sailed. 

I'd  ninety  bars  of  gold,  as  I  sailed,  as  I  sailed, 
I'd  ninety  bars  of  gold,  as  I  sailed, 

I'd  ninety  bars  of  gold,  and  dollars  manifold  : 
With  riches  uncontrolled,  as  I  sailed. 

Then    fourteen    ships   I    see,   as    I    sailed,    as    I 

sailed, 

Then  fourteen  ships  I  see,  as  1  sailed; 
Then    fourteen    ships    I    see,   and    brave    men 

they  be, 
Ah !  they  were  too  much  for  me,  as  I  sailed. 


Thus,   being  overtaken  at  last,  I  must  die,  I  must 
die, 

Thus  being  o'ertaken  at  last,  I  must  die  ; 
Thus,  being  o'ertaken  at  last,  and  into  prison  cast, 

And  sentence  being  passed,  I  must  die. 

Farewell  the  raging  sea,  I  must  die,  I  must  die, 
Farewell  the  raging  main,  I  must  die  ; 

Farewell  the  raging  main,  to  Turkey,  France  and 

Spain, 
I  ne'er  shall  see  you  again,  I  must  die. 

To  Newgate  now  I    'm  cast,  and  must  die,  and 

must  die, 

To  Newgate  now  I'm  cast,  and  must  die; 
To  Newgate   I   am  cast,  with  a  sad  and  heavy 

heart, 
To  receive  my  just  desert,  I  must  die. 

To  Execution  Dock  I  must  go,  I  must  go, 

To  Execution  Dock  I  must  go ; 
To  Execution  Dock  will  many  thousands  flock. 

But  I  must  bear  the  shock,  I  must  die. 

Come  all  ye  young  and  old,  see  me  die,  see  me 

die, 

Come  all  ye  young  and  old,  see  me  die  ; 
Come  all  ye  young  and  old,  you're  welcome  to  my 

gold, 
For  by  it  I've  lost  my  soul,  and  must  die. 

Take  warning,  now.  by  me,  for  I  must  die,  for  I 

must  die, 

Take  warning  now  by  me,  for  I  must  die  ; 
Take  warning  now  by  me,  and  shun  bad  com- 
pany, 
Lest  you  come  to  hell  with  me,  for  I  must  rtie. 


THE   HEAVING  OF  THE   LEAD. 

"THE  Heaving  of  the  Lead"  was  written  for  the  operatic  farce  called  "Hertford 
Bridge."  JAMES  PEARCE,  author  of  the  words,  was  an  English  composer  and  song-writer 
of  the  last  half  of  the  eighteenth  century.  He  wrote  a  comic  opera,  "  Netley  Abbey,"  into 
which  Shield  introduced  "  The  Arethusa,"  to  be  sung  by  Incledon.  George  III.  was  so 
fond  of  this  opera,  that  he  called  for  it  more  frequently  than  for  any  other  afterpiece. 

WILLIAM  SHIELD,  who  composed  the  air,  was  a  musician  of  note,  born  at  Smalwell, 
county  of  Durham,  England,  in  1754.  His  father  was  a  singing-teacher,  and  instructed  his 
son  in  the  art  of  music.  On  his  death,  William,  then  nine  years  old,  was  apprenticed  to  a 
boat-builder.  The  boy's  evenings  were  given  to  music,  and  he  started  subscription  con- 
certs in  the  little  town.  He  composed  a  sacred  piece  for  the  consecration  of  a  church, 
which  was  much  admired,  and  led  to  his  promotion.  He  went  to  London,  in  1779,  joined 
the  orchestra  of  the  King's  band,  and  became  the  composer  for  Covent  Garden  Theatre. 
In  1817  he  went  to  Italy  to  perfect  himself  in  his  art.  He  re-introduced  the  minor  key, 
which  had  been  almost  dropped  from  English  music.  He  was  a  favorite  in  private  life, 
being  amiable  and  benevolent.  His  death  took  place  in  London,  January  16,  1829. 


174 


OUR   FAMILIAR    SONGS. 


ms. 


1.  For      Eng  -  land,    when       with       fav'  -  ring      gale,        Our        gal   -   lant  ship 

2.  And     bear  -  ing        up  to         gain       the       port,      Some      well  -  known  ob 

3.  And,       as         the      much  -   loved     shore    drew     near,       With      trans  -  port    we 


up 
joct 
be  - 


f> 


m 


3^2 


chan-nel  steer'd;  And  scud -ding  un  -  der  ea  -  sy  sail,  The  high,  blue  west-ern 
kept  in  view;  An  Ab  -  beyTow'r,  a  ru  -  in'd  Fort,  Or  Bea  -con,  to  the 
held  the  roof,  Where  dwelt  a  friend,  or  part  -  ner  dear,  Of  faith  and  love,  a 


* 


m 


m 


) 


land        ap  -  pearM; 

ves    -    sel       true; 

match  -  lesg     proof; 


To    heave      the        lead         the 
While     off        the       lead         the 
The     lead,     once     more,       the 


sea -man  sprung,   And       to      the        pi    -    ]0t    cheer  -  ly  sung,  "  By      the  deep,  nine ! 
,- man  flung.     And       to      the        pi    -    lot    cheer  -  ly  sung,  "  By      the  mark,  seven ! 
flung,     And       to      the        pi    -    lot     cheer  -  ly  sung,  "Quar-ter,  less    five! 


THE  HEAVING   OF   THE  LEAD. 
^  tempo. 


175 


"By  the  deep,  nine!"  To  heave  the  lead  the 
"  By  the  mark,  seven ! "  While  off  the  lead  the 
'  Quar  -  ter,  less  five ! "  The  lead,  once  more,  the 


sea  -  man  sprung,  And 
sea  -  man  flung,  And 
sea  -  man  flung,  And 


to         the         pi    -    lot         cheer  -  ly        sung,        "By       the  deep,  nine!" 

to         the         pi    -    lot         cheer  -  ly       sung,        "  By        the  mark,  seven  1 " 

to         the         pi    -    lot         cheer  -  ly       sung,     "  Quar   -  ter,  less  five  I " 


/kfefcfc^^ 

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. 

S^h    k      J           -« 

1 

—  J?  — 

1 

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i  —  s— 

asiS  —  *— 

THE   BAY   OF   BISCAY. 

ANDREW  CHERRY,  author  of  the  words  of  "  The  Bay  of  Biscay,"  was  born  in  Limerick, 
Ireland,  January  11,  1762.  He  received  a  respectable  education  there,  and  was  intended 
for  holy  orders,  but  in  consequence  of  family  misfortunes  was  apprenticed  to  a  printer.  He 
became  a  comic  actor,  and  afterward  went  to  London,  where  he  was  manager  of  the  theatre 
in  which  Edmund  Kean  made  his  first  appearance.  Cherry  produced  two  dramatic  pieces, 
and  a  few  fine  songs.  He  died  in  1812. 

The  air  was  composed  by  JOHN  DAVY,  who  was  born  in  1765,  near  Exeter,  England. 
When  three  years  old,  he  was  thrown  almost  into  fits  from  fright  at  hearing  a  violoncello. 
He  was  shown  that  the  instrument  was  harmless,  and  strumming  upon  it  soon  became  his 
greatest  delight.  At  the  age  of  four,  he  played  quite  correctly.  Before  he  was  six  years 
old,  he  used  to  frequent  a  blacksmith's  shop  in  the  neighborhood.  The  smith  began  to 


176 


OUR    FAMILIAR    SONGS, 


miss  horseshoes,  and,  finally,  thirty  were  gone.  He  had  tried  in  vain  to  tind  the  thief,  when, 
one  day,  he  heard  musical  sounds  proceeding  from  the  top  of  the  building.  He  followed 
the  notes,  and  lighted  upon  little  Davy,  sitting  between  the  ceiling  and  the  thatched  roof, 
with  a  fine  assortment  of  horseshoes  strewn  about  him.  Of  these,  he  had  selected  eight, 
and  suspended  them  by  cords  so  that  they  hung  free,  and  with  a  little  iron  rod  he  was 
running  up  and  down  his  clanging  octave,  after  the  fashion  of  the  village  chimes.  The 
incident  became  known,  and  resulted  in  his  obtaining  thorough  musical  training.  After 
finishing  a  course  of  study  with  a  famous  organist  of  Exeter  Cathedral,  he  went  to  London, 
and  became  performer  in  the  orchestra  at  Covent  Garden  Theatre,  giving  lessons  at  the 
same  time.  He  wrote  the  music  to  Holman's  opera,  "What  a  Blunder!"  and  other  suc- 
cessful pieces.  Incledon,  the  famous  tenor  singer,  was  waiting  for  a  friend  in  a  public 
house  at  Wapping,  when  he  heard  some  sailors  singing  an  air  that  struck  his  fancy.  He 
hummed  it  to  Davy,  who  founded  upon  it  the  air  of  the  "Bay  of  Biscay."  Incledon  used 
to  sing  the  song  with  marvellous  effect.  Davy  died  in  1824. 

Mr.  Henry  Phillips  says :  "  One  thing  connected  with  the  song,  '  The  Bay  of  Biscay/ 
always  perplexed  me;  namely,  why  it  was  called  'The  Bay  of  Biscay  0 !'  I  enquired,  but 
no  one  could  explain  the  mystery  to  me.  I  looked  into  my  geography  book,  and  did  not 
find  it  there.  Some  one,  at  length,  proposed  a  solution  of  the  enigma,  by  saying,  that  the 
marines —  who  were  not  good  sailors — might  have  crossed  those  waters,  and  feeling  very 
ill  from  the  roughness  of  the  passage,  enquired  their  whereabouts  by  saying  'Is  this  the  Bay 
of  Biscay? — Oh! ! !'  This  appeared  so  very  likely,  that  I  adopted  it  as  a  fact."  Phillips 
made  his  debut  with  this  song  when  he  was  but  eight  years  old,  in  a  country  theatre.  The 
little  tail  of  his  jacket  was  sewed  up,  to  turn  him  into  a  tar,  and  directions  were  given  not 
to  let  the  audience  see  the  hump  on  the  back,  produced  by  this  ingenious  method  of  cre- 
ating a  British  seaman.  He  says:  "The  scene  was  set:  an  open  sea,  painted  on  the  back 
of  some  other  scene,  where  the  wood-work  was  more  prominent  than  the  water,  and 
unmistakable  evidence  of  a  street  door  appeared  in  the  middle  of  the  ocean.  All  was 
ready ;  tinkle  went  the  bell ;  up  went  the  curtain,  and  the  glorious  orchestra,  which  con- 
sisted of  two  fiddles  and  a  German  flute,  struck  up  the  symphony.  As  I  strutted  on,  in 
the  midst  of  a  flash  of  lightning — produced  by  a  candle  and  a  large  pepper-box  filled 
with  the  dangerous  elements — I  began  my  theme — 'Loud  roared  the  dreadful  thunder/ 
pointing  my  finger  toward  the  left-hand  side  of  the  stage,  as  if  the  storm  came  from  that 
direction,  which  unfortunately  it  did  not.  At  the  termination,  I  was  loudly  applauded ; 
the  whole  company  shook  hands  with  me,  all  the  ladies  kissed  me,  arid,  in  fact,  I  was  the 
lion  of  the  evening."  The  syllable  comes  from  the  Spanish  form  of  the  word  Vizcaya, 
being  retained  because  the  open  vowel  is  of  advantage  to  the  singer. 
Moderate. 


jt-J2-^    -N-i  —  s"    ~3&—  ^  0—. 

J            *^          m   •        f        m   ±        ^      I      !               a 

—  &T 

@J?-4—  V-4—  *-T  ~  [7—  0  §=^—{7           -fy  l"^—  *    •        \     j 

1.  Loud    roar'd    the  dread  -  ful    thun  -  der,     The        rain        a       del-    uge    show'rs, 
i.  Now    dash'd    up  -  on      the      bil  -    low,      Her        op    -  'ning  tim  -  bers      creak, 

The 

Eaol» 

((t)    4  —      —  *  —  *  1  — 
•J                   •              *         . 

P 

0       -  -    0                               0  L  «  .^-^  ^_^_^_ 

l-j-0  — 

la^^p  —   *[      1    ^    s  j»  B  T  •    •  *-»-* 

21^^1—2=  -^  —  ?  J  —  5_ 

^-M~ 

THE  BAY  OF  BISCAY. 


teqcterzi 


clouds  were  rent  a  -    sun    -  der,    By      light  -  ning's  vi  -  vid    pow'rs.  The  night  was  drear  and 

fears  a     wa  -fry      pil    -    low,  None   stop       the  dread  -  ful    leak.  To  cling  to    slipp-'ry 




— ? — * — szii-zr^q — *_irzf: 
— * —  — f —          -&- 

B j 1_0 41 

•  * 


-4 


i 


^==5 


tftzfc 


dark,  Our    poor,     de  -  vot  -  ed       bark,  Till    next    day,    there    she      lay  In    the 

shrouds,         Each  breath  -  less  sea-man    crowds,  As    she       lay,       till    next    day,  In    the 


I 


P-SC — --.-+ — ^J-* 1 + — -F **"  F — ^- -I 7 — 

* "tf-=F="t7-^ T F -P-  — -f3 Z— 


Bay    of    Bis  -  cay,    0 1 
Bay    of    Bis -cay,    O! 


3izb=i=isz=:*=: 

-£_5__^ 2 1 — J—0- 


-*— l— 


3.  At     length,    the  wish'd-for    mor  -    row    Broke    thro'      the     ha  -    zy       sky,  Ab  - 

4.  Her     yield  -   ing  tim  -  bers    sev    -    er,      Her      pitch   -   y    seams    are      rent,  When 


L  ^^.X^  ^  "^" 


(12) 


178 


OtfJ?  FAMILIAR  SONGS. 


-    sorb'd  in     si  -  lent   sor    -  row,  Each   heav'd    a     bit  -  ter      sigh ; 
Heav'n,  all    bounteous  ev    -     er,    Its      bound  -  less  mer  -  cy       sent, 


The  dis  -  mal  wreck  to 
A    sail    in  sight  ap  - 


;;_4  •   r  P^t^^gf 

:b=  ^Vs;  i-^-«r-=g^EIz 


view,  Struck  hor    -  ror  in     the       crew.    As    she       lay        all    that     day,  In    the 

pears,  We    hail      her  with  three    cheers,  Now  we      sail,     with  the      gale,         From  the 


/K 


g==gY-*={^: 


i 


Bay    of    Bis  -cay,    0! 
Bay    of    Bis  -cay,    0! 


£5 


—= Z^=fg-J-j _jl^    |— -*g?  •"* g^-r^^^-^-j-^-T-j 


POOR   JACK. 

ONE  of  the  first  of  a  series  of  entertainments  given  by  CHARLES  DIBDIN,  was  called 

"The  Whim  of  the  Moment."    In  it  "Poor  Jack"  made  his  appearance,  and  instantly 

the  public  ear.    The  song  brought  its  publishei  twenty-five  thousand  dollars. 

'ibdin,  of  course,  was  its  author  and  composer,  and  he  says  that  he  sold  "  Poor  Jack"  and 

eleven  other  songs  for  three  hundred  dollars.    The  foUowing  incident  is  told  of  Dibdin's 

He  was  in  the  hair-dresser's  hands,  preparing  for  his  evening  entertainment, 

3  lamp-lighter  mounted  his  ladder  in  front,  and  sent  a  cheery  flood  of  light  upon 

the  night.     "A  good  notion  for  a  song,"  he  exclaimed,  and,  as  soon  as  he  could  escape 

3m  the  hair-dresser,  he  went  to  the  piano  and  soon  finished  the  words  and  music  of  "The 

Lamp-lighter,"  which  he  sang  with  fine  effect  upon  the  stage  that  very  night 

While  the  fame  of  "Poor  Jack"  forbids  its  exclusion,  I  can  not  admit  it  here  without 
a  protest  against  its  pernicious  moral  doctrine. 


POOR   JACK. 


179 

Arranged  by   Edward  8.  Cummings. 


-v V V- 


1.  Go       pat  -  ter     to   lub  -  bers  and  swabs,  do  ye    see,    'Bout    dan  -  ger,    and    fear,    and    the 


J- 


0r~ 0  0 0 0 0 0m '**»- 

-*  •*•     -* -+        -+   -+        y  -f 


-*-- 


M= 


—m       f    nzir:  ====jc 
*         ^z=zpz=^=t=z^       ^- 


like, 


iiEE?ES3=SE:!EE 


A       tight    wa  -  ter    boat,    and    good      sea  -  room,  give    me,  And 


,     i 

EEI ««  \  | x 

—  9, —   — ~L * ^ .          f 

— ^1 


-r    -+ 


-?— — -y-f-j- 

BEE;  :rzs_ 


?- 


t'ant     to        a       lit   -  tie       I'll      strike. 


Tho'  the    tern  -  pest,    top  -  gal  -  lant  masts, 


m 


^ 0- 


-s- 


smack  smooth  should  smite,       And  shiv  -  er     each    splin  -  ter     of       wood,  And 

s 

9  9. 


4 * 

3 — « 


-+        -* 


=fi 


•^  5 

H 

E 

r  
• 

—  s- 

T            *   ' 

j            1 

^-^^  — 

5  5  i  . 

—  !• 

-* 

i 

-4             L^~ 

•••  • 

j«s — . — H — !>  r 

§EE^-1 


shiv  -  er      each    splin  -  ter      of        wood ;  • 

=^~ 


Clear  the  wreck,  stow  the    yards,    and  bouze 


— •        • — •     — ^      *|  — ^:» 


if — H=— i ? — 3E 


f 


-*- 


OUR  FAMILIAR   SONGS. 

•fc 


ev    -'ry- thing    tight,       And      un  -  der    reef'd    fore  -  sail    we'll    scud; 


' g tf  -^~  '          gy     •"*  jff1-"' 

=z*=iz:iz:=:  nil       4 teb^-iE'—  =3~3"=   matron1 


r | »  ''      T      p       g          a  !  ^  ^    *    ' 


-   vast  I  nor    don't    think   me       a     milk-sop     so     soft,  To    be       tak  -en       for      tri  -    flo      ;i  - 

J- 


-    back,. 


Forthey    say      there's  a     Prov   -   i  -  dence     sits      up       a    -    loft,         Tiny 


4 * 


-*—• *- 


:?- 


say  there's  a   Prov  -  i  -  dence  sit's  up      a-  loft,     To  keep  watch  for  the  life    of  Poor    Jack. 


•*•  TT       *  •*•       ^TB  4 


*     s+ 

Go  patter  to  lubbers  and  swabs,  do  ye  see, 

'Bout  danger,  and  fear,  and  the  like  ; 
A  tight  water  boat,  and  good  sea-room  give  me ; 

And  t'ant  to  a  little  I'll  strike. 
Tho'  the  tempest,  topgallant-masts  smack  smooth 
should  smite, 

And  shiver  each  splinter  of  wood, 
Clear  the     wreck,   stow    the  yards,  and  bouze 
ev'rything  tight,  . 

And  under  reef  d  forsail  we'll  scud : 
Avast !  nor  don't  think  me  a  milk-sop  so  soft, 

To  be  taken  for  trifles  aback  ; 
For  they  say  there's  a  Providence  sits  up  aloft, 

To  keep  watch  for  the  life  of  poor  Jack. 


~J 


Why  I  heard  the  good  chaplain  palaver  one  day 

About  souls,  heaven,  mercy  and  such, 
And,  my  timbers,  what  lingo  he'd  coil  and  belay, 

Why  'twas  just  all  as  one  as  high  Dutch  ! 
But  he  said  how  a  sparrow  can't  founder,  d'ye 
see, 

Without  orders  that  comes  down  below, 
And  many  fine  things,  that  proved  clearly  to  me, 

That  Providence  takes  as  in  tow. 
For  says   he,  do  you  mind  me,  let  storms  e'er 
so  oft 

Take  the  topsail  of  sailors  aback, 
There's  a  sweet  little  cherub  that  sits  up  aJoft, 

To  keep  watch  for  the  life  of  Poor  Jack. 


POOH    JACK, 


181 


I  said  to  our  Poll,  for,  you  see,  she  would  cry, 

When  last  we  weighed  anchor  for  sea, 
What  argufies  sniveling  and  piping  your  eye  ? 

Why,  what  a    great    fool  you  must  be ! 
Can't  you  see  the  world's  wide,  and  there's  room 
for  us  all, 

Both  for  seamen  and  lubbers  ashore ! 
And  if  to  old  Davy  I  should  go,  friend  Poll, 

Why  you  never  will  hear  of  me  more : 
What   then,    all's  a   hazard,    come,  don't  be   so 
soft, 

Perhaps,  I  may  laughing  coming  back  ; 
For,  d'ye  see,  there's  a  cherub  sits  smiling  aloft, 

To  keep  watch  for  the  life  of  poor  Jack. 


D'ye  mind  me,  a  sailor  should  be  every  inch 

All  as  one  as  a  piece  of  the  ship, 
And  with  her  brave  the  world,  without  offering  to 
flinch, 

From  the  moment  the  anchor's  a  trip  : 
As  for  me,  in  all  weathers,  all  times,  sides  and  ends, 

Nought's  a  trouble  from  duty  that  springs, 
For  my  heart  is  my  Poll's,    and  my   rhino   my 
friend's, 

And  as  for  my  life,  'tis  the  king's. 
Even  when  my  time  comes,  ne'er  believe  me  so  soft 

As  with  grief  to  be  taken  aback : 
That  same  little  cherub  that  sits  up  aloft, 

Will  look  out  a  good  birth  for  Poor  Jack- 


THREE    FISHERS. 

THE  great  English  preacher,  novelist,  and  poet,  CHAELES  KINGSLEY,  was  born  at 
Holne  Vicarage,  Devonshire,  June  12,  1819.  He  was  a  distinguished  student  at  Magdalen 
College,  Cambridge,  and  became  rector  of  Eversley,  in  Hampshire.  In  1859  he  was  ap- 
pointed Professor  of  Modern  History,  at  Cambridge,  which  chair  he  resigned  to  become 
Canon  of  Westminster,  and  Chaplain  to  the  Queen.  His  tour  in  the  United  States,  in 
1873-'4,  will  long  be  pleasantly  remembered.  He  died  in  London,  January  23,  1875. 

While  Mr.  Kiugsley  was  a  boy,  his  father  was  rector  of  the  parish  of  Clovelly,  and  from 
that  little  fishing  village  he  had  often  seen  the  herring  fleet  put  to  sea.  On  such  occasions, 
it  was  his  father's  custom  to  hold  a  short  religious  service  on  the  quay,  in  which  not  only 
the  fishermen,  but  their  mothers,  wives,  sweethearts  and  children  joined  fervently.  Years 
afterward,  at  the  close  of  a  weary  day's  work,  remembering  these  scenes,  he  wrote  the 
song. 

"Three  Fishers"  was  set  to  its  most  familiar  air  by  JOHN  HTJLLAH,  who  was  born  in 
Worcester,  England,  in  1812.  His  comic  opera,  "  The  Village  Coquettes,"  written  in  con- 
junction with  Dickens,  and  brought  out  in  1836,  first  made  him  known  to  the  public.  He 
wrote  a  few  more  operas,  and  then  gave  his  attention  to  establishing  in  England  a  style  of 
popular  music  school,  which  had  proved  successful  in  Paris.  A  spacious  hall  was  built  for 
him,  but  was  burned  down  in  1860.  He  was  Professor  of  Vocal  Music  and  Harmony  in 
King's,  Queen's  and  Bedford  colleges,  London ;  organist  of  the  Charter-house ;  conductor  of 
the  orchestra  and  chorus  in  the  Eoyal  Academy  of  Music ;  Musical  Inspector  for  the  United 
Kingdom,  and  a  musical  writer  of  repute.  He  died  in  February,  1884. 


3 


If 

^  / 

1.  Three  fish- ers  went  sail -ing   out     in -to    the  west,     Out 

2.  Three    wives      sat    up     in    the      light-house  tow'r,And  they 


Andantino. 


182 


on;  FAMIUM;  SUSLIX. 


in  -  to     the  west   as  the    sun  went  down ;  Each  tho't  on  the    wo-man  who  lov'd  him  the  best,  And  the 
trim'ci      the  lamps  as  the    sun  went  down ;  They  look'd  at  the  squall  and  they  look'd  at  the  show'r,And  the 


tempo. 


m 


-* N- 


chil  -  dren   stood  watch  -  ing   them    out      of      the   town ;    For    men 
night  -  rack  came    roll  -  ing      up,     rag  -  ged     and  brown ;  But    men 


must  work,         and 
must  work,         and 


;.;•;»•  .  \  ^«u 
Q 


wo  -  men   must  weep,   And  there's  lit  -  tie       to      earn,     and      ma-ny        to     keep ;  Tho'       the 
wo  -  men   must  weep,  Tho'   storms         be    sudden   and       wa    -     ters   deep ;  And       the 


^—F     =1  1  —  :  3= 

,.,      i 

3 

J                         21  J  i_             13 

•P  J  1~  d  ^~r--  r~-  

....         > 

« 

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< 

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Dim. 

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J    1    J      J 

; 

* 

1  —  • 

i    J  —  j    i 

Cres. 


t= 


5= 


• — • 


THREE  FISHERS. 


183 


un  POCO  meno  mosso. 


3.  Three  corp- ses    lay    out    o"n    the  shin  -   ing  sands,     In  tlie    morn  -  ing  gleam,  as    the 


:fe£ 


Accel. 


t   t   I  IR^g 


*=£ 


-f v- 

tide      went  down,   Anil  the   wo  -  men    are    weep  -  ing     and  wring  •  ing    their  bands        For 


f=£ 


r*//. 


tempo. 


ffi 


^ 


* 


those   who    will     nev  •  er      conic  back        to    the    town ;   For     men         must  work,         and 


*=* 


N 
J 


wo  -  men  must  weep,    And  the  soon-er        it's        o-ver,  the  soon  -  er       to     sleep,  And  good  - 


-=t 


J* 


m 


3= 


-=i — n- 


Cres. 


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KB  
17  -    by 

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1     .         /     J  J           J 

e      to  the      bar   and 

its     moan        ... 

Dim. 

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m  —  *  —  :  —  *  —  •  —  — 

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^H-r^ 

E^gE^S 

184 


OUR   FAMILIAR    ttONGN. 


Three  fishers  went  sailing  out  into  the  west, 

Out  into  the  west  as  the  sun  went  down ; 
Each  thought  on  the  woman  who  loved  him  the 

best, 
And  the  children  stood  watching  them  out  of 

the  town ; 

For  men  must  work,  and  women  must  weep. 

And  there's  little  to  earn,  and  many  to  keep; 

Tho'  the  harbor  bar  be  moaning. 

Three  wives  sat  up  in  the  lighthouse  tower.  i 

And  they  trimmed  the  lamps  as  the  sun  went 

down; 
They  looked  at  the  squall,  and  they  looked  at  the 

shower. 


And  the  night-rack  came  rolling  up,  ragged  and 

brown  : 

But  men  must  work,  and  women  must  weep, 
Tho'  storms  be  sudden  and  waters  deep  : 
And  the  harbor  bar  be  moaning, 

Three  corpses  lay  out  on  the  shining  sands, 

In  the  morning  gleam  as  the  tide  went  down, 
And  the  women  are  weeping  and  wringing  their 

their  hands, 
For   those   who   will  never  come  back  to  the 

town ; 

For  men  must  work,  and  women  must  weep, 
And  the  sooner  it's  over,  the  sooner  to  sleep, 

And  good-bye  to  the  bar  and  its  moaning. 


ARE  THERE  TIDINGS? 

THE  words  of  this  favorite  of  former  years  are  no  doubt  of  English  origin ;  but  I  have 
DO  clue  to  their  authorship.  The  air  is  by  the  well-known  musician,  SIR  HENRY  ROWLEY 
BISHOP,  who  was  born  in  London,  in  1786,  and  was  carefully  educated  there  under 
Italian  music-masters.  His  first  noticeable  composition  was  "The  Circassian  Bride," 
which  was  destroyed  in  the  burning  of  the  Drury  Lane  Theatre,  the  day  after  a  most 
successful  production  upon  its  stage.  Bishop  was  for  fourteen  years  director  of  music 
at  Covent  Garden  Theatre,  and  for  thirty  years  thereafter  he  was  a  leader  in  London 
musical  matters.  Besides,  to  use  his  own  words,  "  operas,  burlettas,  melodramas,  inci- 
dental music  to  Shakespeare's  plays,  patchings  and  adaptations  of  foreign  operas,  glees, 
ballads,  canzonets,  and  cantatas,"  he  wrote  niore  than  fifty  operas,  including  "Guy 
Mannering,"  and  others  that  still  hold  their  place  j  was  for  years  director  of  the  famous 
"Ancient  Concerts,"  was  first  director  of  the  Philharmonic  concerts,  and  composed 
for  the  sac-red  musical  festivals.  He  succeeded  Sir  John  Stevenson  in  arranging  Moore's 
"Irish  melodies,"  and  edited  several  musical  publications,  including  "Melodies  of  Various 
Nations,"  and  the  closing  volumes  of  Thomson's  "  Scottish  Songs,"  and  also  set  many  old 
English  airs  to  words  by  Charles  Mackay.  In  1842  he  was  knighted.  At  the  time  of  his 
death,  he  held  the  professorship  of  music  at  Oxford.  In  1831,  he  married  Anna  Riviere, 
who  became  the  well-known  vocalist,  Madame  Anna  Bishop.  In  spite  of  the  apparently 
great  success  of  his  career,  his  closing  days  were  clouded  not  only  by  bodily  and  mental 
disorder,  but  by  pecuniary  troubles.  He  died,  April  30,  1855. 

i 


the 


ARE    THERE    TIDINGS? 


185 


s  _  s 


Are  there    tid  -    ings         for    a      inoth  -er,         Who   is    mourning 


for    the 


for 


the 


ifate=^"-   N       K       1 ^ ^=iz±^;zij-  .-ftz=:g^i=3=j — J__ 

brave  ?  No,   no,     no !        She      is      freight  -ed  with     fond       tid 

9 9 0_  J J «t__J_ 


-ft — >%— 

••=*= 

ings ;  But  no 


:ig=i£q=qi  -f^fcrirt 

p5=^=i=  =^     J-S-*Efcr 

i f-0 0 0 • 1  _*v 


p 


: 


But   no       tid  -  ings  from  the       grave. 

I  N 


tid  -  ings  from  the      grave, 

IIIs                                                          I 
— • *  «— —        — * — \~& — v  0 0 — T  -  £ * *—r—     —  «'—  T y n 

*^|>=±_  —  o= A—\5y-  l^^ — »     I_L c—       I  qiztzig±=:JI 

g — tr"*1- — ^~=- ^— t— i ^i 

from  the      grave. 


=F ^-f^:: 

!ZTznz_-=zEz:Izt:= 


from 


the    grave, 


q^=^q 
SgH 


2.    Do    not      ask    me 


why     I        has 


_5t-iz^: 


ten    To  each     ves-  sel 

IX 


that    ap 


s        —                 ^.    ^.      JtJ  ^ 

i — ,-• —  »  • — 0 — ,         — T~*    — f~- *~^~~      'zz*~ 


4-» » 

:tir— 


^      s.D- 


&?irf4=i 

-H- 

^ 


-     pears;          Why   so    anx  -  ions,         and    so   wild  -  ly, 

c\i-?.~~ — L— —     — — ^ — ^- — t— T— i— 1 1 1 — ^— i 1 

gj^fc? lz=fc=Ei|£z^E=:=E^£=p=£=: 


I    wait  the  cherished  hope  of 

^— j: 

S^t: 


1-^=3 


=s 


years;  No,    no,      no!    Though  my   search  prove  un    -    a    -    vail 

=S==S=2=J:-^=L.__L 


ing,  What  have 
-«-     *-     *- 


~t 


I to     do  with      tears, 

£-j_j. j 


What  have      J....  to      do  with    tears? 


fe^^fEEE|bEg 


186 


OUlt  FAMILIAR  SONGS. 


^=^ 


5=i^=r 


8.   Do    not    blame  me 


when 


I         seek  him,  With  these  worn  and  wea  -ry 


9tfcts=fc 


J    J     J. 


i 


13= 


«=iif=t± 


N 


-*-— 


I 


;^=^^^=^^^I^E^^^Ep^ 


Efc=£ 


eyes ;  Can  you    tell    me         where  he    per  -  ished,  Can  you      show  me        where  he 

£**J£j)± 


*=JF£3 


f=p 


3=£ 


5  — 


lies?    No,     no,     no!     Yet    there    sure  -  ly 

— » * » — ,  -» • *- 


is   some          re 


cord,  When  a 


'- 


A- 


youth-ful  sai  -  lor       dies, 

^ 

-J^^        K 


^rm  • 

When   a  .    youth  -f ul  sai  -  lor       dies. 

I          I  J 


-*     .  • 1— . ^-l-m 


rj"^1^!     J  .    «^~j'~1''t-  r~    I      .  ^^T 
J=8=FH^P=--fc^=F4S=       =^ 


4.  Had    I  watch'dhim  by       his     pil 

JL^, 


low,  Had   I       seen  him 


on     his 


m 


bier,  Had  my    grief        been  drown'din  weep-ing;—     But     I      can -not  shed    a 


~N >»- 


= 


tear.    No,    no,     no!      Let     me      still   think  I        shall       see him,  Let  me 

III  |* ^       ^      M. 

-=£——•— T-* J «U J- 


-f f: 


_^-i. 


_^ ^_ 


^: 


AltK    THE  HE    TIDINGS? 


187 


Fg=d ,_  g;~- 

— *zjzij * — * — i 


still  think 


he  is         near, 


53 


. 


S^E 

3tZ 


Let  me      still  think  he         is       near. 

A,.       -J_J_J 


^^Efl 

3t= 


THE  SANDS  O'   DEE. 

THIS  exquisite  song,  by  CHARLES  KINGSLEY,  occurs  in  his  novel  of  "Alton  Locke." 
The  hero  says :  "  After  singing  two  or  three  songs,  Lillian  began  fingering  the  keys,  and 
struck  into  an  old  air,  wild  and  plaintive,  rising  and  falling  like  the  swell  of  an  JEolian 
harp  upon  a  distant  breeze.  l  Ah !  now/  she  said,  '  if  I  could  get  words  for  that !  What 
an  exquisite  lament  somebody  might  write  to  it.'  *  *  *  My  attention  was  caught  by 
hearing  two  gentlemen,  close  to  me,  discuss  a  beautiful  sketch  by  Copley  Fieiding,  if  I 
recollect  rightly,  which  hung  on  the  wall — a  wild  waste  of  tidal  sands,  with  here  and  there 
a  line  of  stake-nets  fluttering  in  the  wind — a  gray  shroud  of  rain  sweeping  up  from  the 
westward,  through  which  low,  red  cliffs  glowed  dimly  in  the  rays  of  the  setting  sun — a 
train  of  horses  and  cattle  splashing  slowly  through  shallow,  desolate  pools  and  creeks, 
their  wet,  red  and  black  hides  glittering  in  one  long  line  of  level  light.  One  of  the  gentle- 
men had  seen  the  spot  represented,  at  the  mouth  of  the  Dee,  and  began  telling  wild  stories 
of  salmon-fishing  and  wild-fowl  shooting — and  then  a  tale  of  a  girl,  who,  in  bringing  her 
father's  cattle  home  across  the  sands,  had  been  caught  by  a  sudden  flow  of  the  tide,  and 
was  found  next  day  a  corpse  hanging  among  the  stake-nets  far  below.  The  tragedy,  the 
art  of  the  picture,  the  simple,  dreary  grandeur  of  the  scenery,  took  possession  of  me,  and 
I  stood  gazing  a  long  time,  and  fancying  myself  pacing  the  sands.  *  *  *  As  I  lay 
castle-building,  Lillian's  wild  air  still  rang  in  my  ears,  and  combined  itself  somehow  with 
the  picture  of  the  Cheshire  Sands,  and  the  story  of  the  drowned  girl,  till  it  shaped  itself 
into  a  song.'* 

Lillian's  fancied  "  wild  air"  could  hardly  have  been  finer  or  more  delicately  appropri- 
ate than  this  one,  composed  for  the  poem  by  FBANCIS  BOOTT.  Mr.  Boott  has  produced 
many  fine  songs  by  writing  music  for  lyrics  of  Tennyson,  Longfellow,  Scott,  Byron, 
Campbell,  and  others. 

By  special  permission  of  Messrs.  OLIVER  DITSON  &  Co. 


6*5                              _l 

H     1  I 

• 

!        c 

"*'             f                   J              r  1 

*--*          _H                        » 

S               1            ^     • 

A                  *    *      *        i                 1 

a 

|      tt 

» 

»      • 

H-     1  «•                     *                                   '    H* 

1.    O         Ma    - 
2.  The      creep  - 

ry.  go 

ing   tide 

and    call 
came  up 

the    cat    - 
a  -  long 

Ej*                        V                               H* 
tie    home,         And  call     the    cat  -  tie 
the   sand,           And  o'er    and  o'er    the 

OUR   FAMILIAR    SONGS. 


EaEF^: 

ESZZtjtJ — 


holm-. 
sand, 


And      call         the      cat   -    tie      home, 
And    round      and    round    the      sand, 


=» 

A   -   cross       the    sands     of 
As        far  as      eye     could 


3 


Dee,  The         west-  ern  wind  was       wild     and  dank,  The      west  -  ern  wind    was 

see;  The       blind -ing  mist   came      pour  -  ing  down,  The     blind  -  ing  mist  came 

!=£d=tr      ;         K 


*  — — ^JL^—  *~  -• — »~ijj~  =i=« 


wild      and  dank,  was    wild      and  dank  with  foam;   And  all       a  -  lone       went    she. 
pour  -    ing  down,  Came  down  and   hid      the    laud,    And  nev  -  er    home     came    she. 

£T~*~~g= 


3.  Oh!        is       it    weed, 

J2- 
*.       £     ~ 

iy 


or    fish,       or    float  -    ing  hair? 


drown   -  ed      maid  -  en's      hair, 


THE   SANDS    0'    DEE. 


189 


m 


^=^—0 — 0 — n*1^.   0    ^==:F3 — :F~~i — -=:i 

=b=t=bE35E  —  I'  '  -* *       1 


Was       nev    -  er  weed    or  fish      that  shone ;  Was    nev  -    er  weed     or 


^B?ET^^±S^S^ 


bx==h=i±=^^=4==i=±± 


—+—»•—»•— t-  — f        — t-  — »•— f  —»•—+•  —(•—»•  —*•—!•  — (•  — (• 

•*•-••-»•-*•  -••-••  •*•-»•  -»•-••  •*••*•  •*•-••  •*••*• 


•s*- 


•Z*=L 


~&~ 


fish      that  shone,    that  shone  so....       fair,      Among    the    stakes      on       Dee. 

±£=g=  z*:=t=  =3=3=.     ±±c 


*• 


-£-' 


s«f 


3- 


dim. 


E^ 


«•""     * 

^  rt  tempo. 


a*3?r; 


^^3 


:x 


^^        ^^        5^?^^?^ 


-zqj^t— zzvizni 
j T^^Z==IZq==^^I=zfc^ 

— ^zu         zz:qzz3j25h__ 


=|=|-Ej       53=  -^s=t±=-t 

zJ^B^E^^-^^-B^-Ffc^ 


4.  They    row'd  her    in 


te^ 


a -cross     the    roll   -  ing  foam,  The   cru  -   el,  crawl-ing 


T" 


. ,    I A i i   


""I 


i~  * — &- 


fhe 


foam,  The       cru      -   el,      hun-    gry      foam, 

JEEEzzE  ziz^zzn: 


To  her  grave      be  -  side       the 


p  k.J 


ISi 


i^^; 


^_« — « — ^. — 0. 


:=izd — — fy—l j— i 

-^ \-0—i—9 0 4 

-i 1  -H 


=l=: 
sea;  But         still      the  boat  -  men       hear      her  call,    But      still       the  boat   -men 


H   g=| 


11 


J90 


OUK   FAMILIAR    SONGS. 


-ty.  y — t H h 

3M?   *  * — » — r 


hear      her   call,  Call      the  cat  -  tie    homo,       Across    the  sands         o'        Dec. 


m 


O  Mary !  go  and  call  the  cattle  home, 

And  call  the  cattle  home, 
And  call  the  cattle  home, 

Across  the  sands  of  Dee. 
The  western  wind  was  wild  and  dank. 

The  western  wind  was  wild  and  dank, 
Was  wild  and  dank  with  foam : 

And  all  alone  went  she. 

The  creeping  tide  came  up  along  the  sand, 

And  o'er,  and  o'er  the  sand, 
And  round  and  round  the  sand, 

As  far  as  eye  could  see ; 
The  blinding  mist  came  pouring  down, 

The  blinding  mist  came  pouring  down, 
Came  down  and  hid  the  land, 

And  never  home  came  she ! 


Oh  !  is  it  weed,  or  fish,  or  floating  hair ! 

A  tress  o'  golden  hair! 
O'  drowned  maiden's  hair, 

Above  the  nets  at  sea  ? 
Was  never  weed  or  fish  that  shone, 

Was  never  weed  or  fish  that  shone, 
That  shone  so  fair 

Among  the  stakes  on  Dee  ! 

They  rowed  her  in  across  the  rolling  foam, 

The  cruel,  crawling  foam. 
The  cruel,  hungry  foam, 

To  her  grave  beside  the  sea ; 
But  still  the  boatmen  hear  her  call, 

But  still  the  boatmen  hear  her  call, 
Call  the  cattle  home, 

Across  the  sands  o'  Dee. 


THE   PILOT. 

THIS  song  was  written  by  THOMAS  HAYNES  BAYLY.  The  music  is  the  composition  of 
SIDNEY  NELSON,  a  noted  English  song  composer,  who  was  born  in  1800,  and  died  in  1862. 
Carrie  Nelson  and  Mrs.  Craven,  the  actresses  and  singers,  are  his  daughters. 


M  *f  i  *    "j~| 

i  i    [  ~ 

K 

i  J  .    J          )q_ 

—  i  — 

—  1*^1 

w  ^ 

1.  "Oh! 
2.  "Ah! 
3.      On 

fe)gt  n>  t  r=i 

pi  -  lot,     'tis           a 
pi  -  lot,    dan   -  gers 
such       a    night,      the 

r—0  0  *-:  A-. 

4=1=4=^^=4=^ 

fear   -   ful    night,  There's  dan  -  ger      on 
of    -    ten     met    "We      all      are      apt 
sea         engulph'd    My       fa  -  ther's    life   - 

the 
to 
less 

deep!       I'll 
slight,     And 
form;      My 

J 

r     •   g  — 

«  i 

1            [ 

'     '            ^ 

r 

3 

1  —  F—  ' 

»  —  i 

4            J   J 

7'£fJ?    P/7,  0 

—  t—  1  J 

r. 

~T  1  —                IK  

-«  —  J-T—  4 

-j  —  j-  -f^r*r 

—  1  —  «^~ 

*M*           •  I'm                    0          * 

* 

0          *    •    J  IhJ 

^J                \ 

fj             -0-         -9-       -0- 

come      and    pace      the      deck 
thou      hast  known  these      rag 
on    -    ly    broth  -  er's      boat 

*     -*-• 

with    thee,       I 
•   ing  waves    But 
went  down      In 

—  f  —  p  ;  ^g. 

-*-        -*  j^* 

do        not      dare        to 
to        sub  -  due      their 
just        so       wild         a 

1           1\ 

sleep."  "  Go 
might;"  "It 
storm  :    And 

^^-*    U  .     L      *       i       I 

—  ^  —  i  —  __^ 

IT   i*  1   r 

—  N  ^—     -^- 

'       ' 

(D;    —  \'  —  r  —  yj     I^'~T 

—  N  I-S-- 

^M  ^^ 

J     ^  J  — 

down  !  "  the       sail    -    or       crie 
is         not        ap     -     a         thy 
such,     per  -  haps,    may        be 

•  i  *~  '  •  •  r   r 

i,  "go    down  I     Thia      is       no    place       for 
,"     he    cried,    "That  gives   this  strength   to 
my     fate,       But    still       I       say        to 

thee  ;     Fear 
me,      Fear 
thee,     Fear 

fft)^[    ff|                    \                r        J       J          1   1         I 

£  =       =  p  

t  ^    ,       !•— 

^/>ff't)'  —  \t  —                     *    p*  1  —  jj- 

"7  ^  P  «£  

f  *  r»  1  F~f" 

f?    f  

^^^1             MBM! 

1 

j               r        \ 

"—  ' 

*                          ! 

K                ^ 

*       i>       \         *•' 
h 

1  —  i  1  n 

\Jf  ^jt~  1  —      —  *  —               —  ij  — 

l-r- 

—  J  K— 

j  —  H 

ICn 

—5  ts 

-\  U  J  — 

—  «       4^—  H 

_^  .£  *  ^_l  _^_  ^  ^_  f-u^  ^  9  0    '    ^..   " 

iy 
not,        but      trust       in       Prov     -     i   •   dence,    Wher  -  ev    -    er         thou    mayst       be." 

SH3?  —  f  P  

H  li  M 

C  p  p  

-    <rv-H 

F^#  —  1  1  —  p  —  u~r~ 

—  pa  —  u..T...  .  |»  

~irt~^Hl 

i  *  —  p  —  k-i— 

TREASURES  OF  THE  DEEP. 

IT  is  always  pleasant  to  think  of  the  gifted  sisters,  MRS.  HEMANS  and  MRS.  ARKWRIGHT, 
supplementing  each  other's  work.  In  this  song,  they  seem  to  have  been  unusually  happy : 
it  is  one  of  the  finest  of  their  joint  compositions. 


: 


1.  What  hid'st 


thou         in 


thy       treasure  -  caves    and 


cells, 


192 


OUR   FAMILIAR   SONGS. 


-f          f       -0—<<S.-- 


pearls, 


and         rainbow  -  col  -    our>d        shells, 


Bright  things  which  gleam    un  - 


•*•*•*•» 


.  _J| L_ 

X<5«- 


:ri== 


-*-T- 


3EEP        E5ES3p 

-m ^ * * 4--V V — K v*     ' 

_    __  _ _i__ ^^          ^ ^** 


-     reck'd-of ,  and    in    vain ! 
fc 


Keep,  keep     thy  rich-es, 


mel  -  an-cho  -   ly 


-t=t 


=^3^F=£=\ 

i—3 1 


=£ 


I 


-t-tt 1 ._      H 

S&-g^J=j=^=^ 


sea!....  We     ask       not,      we      ask       not 

/7S  I  I 


such 


3^SE^1 


£EPE3 


s 


"  ~i^  —  —  *-  ^^^sZ ^^ 


^ 


4.  But  more, 


the         billows 


and     the  depths  have  more ! 


•*•*••*•  •*  -+  •+        *+     *+  •+-*-+ 


g 


—*- 


High  hearts         and  brave       are  gather'd  to....  thy      breast!    They    hear 


not 


9'j 


IP 


i 


TREASURES  OF  THE  DEEP. 


193 


n 


now  the         boom-ing   wa   -  ters         roar,  The    bat       -        tie    thun  -  ders 


-gprf-rf 


will  not  break  their  rest. 


Keep  thy    red       gold  and     gems,  thou  storm  -  y 


zfcm  ~i ~~^T-1 ^T        "*r""~T~ 

fa?=l: i— zj^j^gEgf  •*-|Tt-r£=P= 


£      ?  * 


grave!  Give      back,  give    back  the     true 


and     brave  I 


-4-4- 


n   -<s^  -*. 


t==  =|=  — )« pjgzugizriZ^r-  ^iX- j=-—  =5= 


6.  To      thee, 


the        love 


of         wo  -  mail  hath    gone         down ; 


=-J4J >-J- 


Dark    roll  thy  tides        o'er  manhood's  no        -       ble      head,         O'er    youth's  bright 

/^ 


rr»=ii*  — f — z-~            *-j-i        fj  -T— 

l=zri  J3=l'=  -^Ti^^Z^f-*1^^ *-H~"— f 


locks,  and    beau  -ty's  flow   -  'ry  crown,  Yet    must    thou  hear   a  voice —     re  - 

.    T-r     -j      =±  "^ 


-    store 


the    dead  I 

-s- 


Earth      shall        re  -  claim          her       pre  -  cious  things  from 


theel  Re    -  store,  re  -    store  the      dead,  thou         sea! 

(13) 


OUR  FAMILIAR  SONGS. 


What  hid'st  thou  in  thy  treasure-caves  and  cells  ? 
Thou  hollow-sounding  and  mysterious  main! 

—  Pale   glistening    pearls,   and    rainbow-colored 

shells, 
Bright  things  which  gleam  unrecked  of,  and  in  vain; 

—  Keep,  keep  thy  riches,  melancholy  sea ! 
We  ask  not  such  from  thee. 

Yet  more,  the  depths  have  more!  — what  wealth 
untold, 

Fardown,andshiningthrough  their  stillness  lies! 
Thou  hast  the  starry  gems,  the  burning  gold, 

Won  from  ten  thousand  royal  argosies ! 
Sweep  o'er  thy  spoils,  thou  wild  and  wrathful  main : 

Earth  claims  not  these  again. 

Yet  more,  the  depths  have  more !  thy  waves  have 
rolled 

Above  the  cities  of  a  world  gone  by ! 
Sand  hath  filled  up  the  palaces  of  old, 

Sea-weed  o'ergrown  the  halls  of  revelry. 

—  Dash  o'er  them,  ocean  !  in  thy  scornful  play, 
Man  yields  them  to  decay. 


Yet  more  !  the  billows  and  the  depths  have  more  ! 

High    hearts   and   brave,  are   gathered  to  thy 

breast ! 
They  hear  not  now  the  booming  waters  roar, 

The  battle-thunders  will  not  break  their  rest. 
—  Keep  thy  red  gold  and  gems,  thou  stormy  grave  ! 

Give  back  the  true  and  brave  ! 

Give  back  the  lost  and  lovely!  —  those  for  whom 
The  place  was  kept  at  board  and  hearth  so  long, 

The  prayer  went  up  through  midnight's  breathless 

gloom, 
And  the  vain  yearning  woke  'midst  festal  song. 

Hold  fast  thy  buried  isles,  thy  towers  o'erth  rown , 
But  all  is  not  thine  own 

To  thee  the  love  of  woman  hath  gone  down, 
Dark  flew  thy  tides  o'er  manhood's  noble  head, 

O'er  youth's  bright  locks,  and   beauty's  flowery 

crown, 
— Yet  must  thou  hear  a  voice — restore  the  dead ! 

Earth  shall  reclaim  her  precious  things  from  thee  ! 
—  Restore  the  dead,  thou  sea ! 


ROCKED  IN  THE  CRADLE  OF  THE  DEEP. 

MRS.  EMMA  WILLAKD  was  an  eminent  teacher,  and  author  of  several  well-known 
school-books.  But  everything  she  wrote  seems  already  antiquated,  except  this  noble  song. 
Mrs.  Willard's  maiden  name  was  Hart.  She  was  bom  in  Berlin,  Connecticut,  February  25, 
1787,  and  died  in  Troy,  New  York,  April  15, 1870.  Dr.  John  Lord  has  written  her  biography, 
which  is  accompanied  by  two  fine  presentations  of  her  striking  face. 

"Kocked  in  the  Cradle  of  the  Deep"  was  written  during  Mrs.  Willard's  passage  home 
from  Europe,  in  1832.  The  Duke  de  Choiseul  was  on  board  the  vessel,  and  hearing  her 
repeat  the  first  two  lines,  urged  her  to  finish  the  song.  He  composed  music  for  it,  but  his 
air  has  been  supplanted  by  the  more  appropriate  melody  of  JOSEPH  PHILIP  KNIGHT,  with 
which  alone  it  is  now  associated.  Mr.  Knight  is  an  Englishman,  and  has  composed  many 
fine  songs,  especially  those  that  relate  to  the  sea.  He  taught  music  in  Mrs.  Willard's 
school,  and  also  in  New  York  city,  but  fled  the  country  in  disgrace. 


3E^g=  ES^gEf^g; 

Se-cure  I    rest  up  -  on   the       wave, For    thou    O! 

^^^^^-—--^-^g^r^ 


~9 m, '          ii — 

— +    Jt          — -(•         J*r         — *• 
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ROCKED  IN  THE    CRADLE    OF   THE  DEEP. 


195 


Lord,         hast  pow'r  to      save. 


te 


I      know          thou  wilt  not  slight    my 


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call, 


For    thou  dost    mark  the    spar  •  row's  fall ! 


And 


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calm    and  peaceful  is  my  sleep, Rock'd    in    the  cradle  of    the  deep, 


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calm      and  peaceful    is  my  sleep,. 


Rock'd    in    the  cradle  of    the  deep. 

^•~.tr^r.  ^r.tv"^ 


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And    such    the  trust  that  still  were    mine, Tho'  storm-y       winds swept  o'er  the 


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196 


OUR  FAMILIAR   SONGS. 


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cnha    and  peaceful  is  my  sleep, Rock'd    in    the  cradle  of    the  deep 


And 


calm     and  peaceful    is  my  sleep, 


Eock'd    In    the  cradle  of    the  deep. 

~tr^  ^tr' *. 


SONGS  OF  NATURE, 


And,  loving  still,  these  quaint  old  themes, 

Even  in  the  city's  throng, 
I  feel  the  freshness  of  the  streams 
That,  crossed  by  shades  and  sunny  gleams, 
Water  the  green  land  of  dreams, 

The  holy  land  of  song. 

—  Henry  Wadsworth  Longfettou). 


The  snow-drop,  and  then  the  violet, 
Arose  from  the  ground  with  warm  rain  wet; 
And  their  breath  was  mixed  with  fresh  odor,  sent 
From  the  turf,  —  like  the  voice  and  the  instrument. 

—  Percy  Bysshe  Shelley. 


Song  should  breathe  of  scents  and  flowers  I 

Song  should  like  a  river  flow! 
Song  should  bring  back  scenes  and  hours 

That  we  loved — ah,  long  ago! 

—Bryan  Waller  Procter. 


I  hear  the  blackbird  in  the  corn, 

The  locust  in  the  haying ; 
And,  like  the  fabled  hunter's  horn, 

Old  tunes  my  heart  is  playing. 

—  John  Qreenleaf  Whittier. 


SONGS  OF  NATURE, 


THE    BROOK. 

TENNTSON'S  poem  of  "The  Brook,"  has  been  set  to  music  so  appropriate,  by  an 
^English  lady,  that  it  has  become  a  drawing-room  favorite,  and  I  insert  the  song,  although 
I  cannot  give  the  name  of  the  composer. 


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1.  With        ma-ny  a   curve       my  banks  I     fret,        By  ma-ny  a     field    and    fallow;               And 
2.      I         -wind       a  -  bout,        and  in    and    out,     With  here     a    bios  -  som    sailing;              And 
3.      I           steal      by  lawns      and  grass  -y     plots,         I  slide     by     ha  -  zel     covers;                  I 

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ma-ny  a       fai  -   ry      lore    -    land  set    "With    \vil  -  low,  weed,      and  mallow. 
here      and   there      a       lust      -      y  trout,  And  here      and  there  a  grayling. 

move      the    sweet  for  -  get     -     me-uots,  That    grow    for    hap     -     py  lov-ers. 


I 

And 
I 


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200 


OUR  FAMILIAR  SONGS. 


slip,     I     slide,    I    gleam,   I   glance,       A  -  mong  my  skimming     swallows 
here  and  there    a     snow  -  y    flake         Up-  on    me       as   1          trav-el, 


here 

mur-  mur    un  -  der  moon  and  stars         In    bram-  bly     wilder    -    ness  -  es : 

8va . .  


I 
With 

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•J.        »  -J.        •  — -         /ji-f         !•••       1 


5   W 


^ 


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make    the  netted        sunbeams  dance         A  -  gainst  my    sand    -        y       shal-lows; 
ma-ny       a  silver        wa-  tor  -break         A  -  bove  the    gold     -      en     grav  -  el;  Ami 

I'm   -    po  r  by  my      shin-gly    bars,          I       loi  -  ter  round        my     cress-  eg,  And 


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chat -ter,        chatter,          as        I       flow          To  join       the  brimming      riv-er.  For 

draw       them  all  along,   and    flow,  &c. 

out  again  I  curve  and    flow,  &c. 


may  come,,    and  men    may  go,          But  I        go       on      for      ev-er,  ev-er, 


^  =fj 


THE  BltOOK. 


201 


I  come  from  haunts  of  coot  and  hern, 

I  make  a  sudden  sally, 
And  sparkle  out  among  the  fern, 

To  bicker  down  a  valley. 

By  thirty  hills  I  hurry  down, 
Or  slip  between  the  ridges, 

By  twenty  thorps,  a  little  town, 
And  half  a  hundred  bridges. 

Till  last,  by  Philip's  farm  I  flow 
To  join  the  brimming  river; 

For  men  may  come,  and  men  may  go, 
But  I  go  on  for  ever. 

I  chatter  over  stony  ways, 
In  little  sharps  and  trebles; 

I  bubble  into  eddying  bays, 
I  babble  on  the  pebbles. 

With  many  a  curve  my  banks  I  fret, 
By  many  a  field  and  fallow, 

And  many  a  fairy  foreland  set 
With  willow-weed  and  mallow. 

I  chatter,  chatter,  as  I  flow, 
To  join  the  brimming  river; 

For  men  may  come,  and  men  may  go, 
But  I  go  on  for  ever. 

I  wind  about,  and  in  and  out, 
With  here  a  blossom  sailing, 


And  here  and  there  a  lusty  trout, 
And  here  and  there  a  grayling; 

And  here  and  there  a  foamy  flake, 

Upon  me  as  I  travel, 
With  many  a  silvery  water-break, 

Above  the  golden  gravel; 

And  draw  them  all  along,  and  flow 
To  join  the  brimming  river; 

For  men  may  come,  and  men  may  go, 
But  I  go  on  for  ever. 

I  steal  by  lawns  and  grassy  plots, 

I  slide  by  hazel  covers ; 
I  move  the  sweet  forget-me-nots, 

That  grow  for  happy  lovers. 

I  slip,  I  slide,  I  gleam,  I  glance, 
Among  my  skimming  swallows; 

I  make  the  netted  sunbeams  dance 
Against  my  sandy  shallows. 

I  murmur  under  moon  and  stars, 

In  brambly  wildernesses ; 
I  linger  by  my  shingly  bars, 

I  loiter  round  my  cresses. 

And  out  again,  I  curve  and  flow, 
To  join  the  brimming  river ; 

For  men  may  come,  and  men  may  go, 
But  I  go  on  for  ever. 


502 


OUR    FAMILIAR    SONGS. 

SOME    LOVE  TO   ROAM. 


CHARLES  MACKAY,  author  of  this  lyric,  was  born  in  1812,  in  Perth,  Scotland,  of  an 
ancient  and  honorable  family.  His  life  has  been  spent  mainly  in  London,  where  he  has 
been  an  editor  of  newspapers,  reviews,  and  books  of  antiquarian  research,  a  writer  of 
prose,  and  a  maker  of  songs.  He  composed  many  of  the  airs  for  the  latter,  and,  in  connec- 
tion with  Sir  Henry  Rowley  Bishop,  arranged  one  hundred  of  the  choicest  English  melo- 
dies. He  visited  the  United  States  in  1857,  and  delivered  a  lecture  in  Boston,  on  "  Songs : 
national,  historical,  and  popular." 

The  music  of  this  song  is  the  composition  of  HENRY  EUSSELL.  Of  this  singer,  a  com- 
petent judge  and  a  fair  critic,  Mr.  Henry  Phillips,  says :  "  At  the  same  period  (about  1840), 
a  singer  was  gradually,  but  with  the  most  decided  certainty,  gaining  ground  as  a  musical 
entertainer.  Belonging  to  no  particular  school,  possessing  no  particular  voice,  not  particu- 
larly gifted  as  a  musician,  as  a  declaimer  not  particularly  refined, — still,  on  he  came,  and  day 
by  day  advanced  in  public  favor,  casting  into  shadow  the  most  accomplished  vocalists,  and 
seizing  with  vigor  and  firmness  subjects  that  enthralled  the  audience,  held  them  firm 
within  his  grasp,  and  overwhelmed  them  with  a  common  sense  wonder.  Who  was  this 
stupendous  stranger?  A  lad  of  Hebrew  extraction,  whose  father  had  a  curiosity-shop  near 
Covent  Garden,  who  sang  when  a  little  boy  at  the  Surrey  Theatre,  in  a  piece  called 
"  Gulli ver  and  the  Liliputians,"  and  who  from  that  time  had  scarcely  been  heard  of,  till  he 
came,  the  herald  of  an  enormous  reputation,  the  most  popular  singer  of  the  multitude  in 
England ;  a  man  who  in  due  time  eclipsed  even  John  Parry  in  everything  but  refinement. 
This  wondrous  person  was  Mr.  Henry  Russell,  whose  name,  long  after  he  had  retired,  held 
sway  over  the  minds  and  hearts  of  the  multitude.  Let  us  see  how  all  this  popularity  was 
attained.  It  was  not  by  voice,  appearance,  elegance,  or  knowledge,  but  by  that  uncommon 
circumstance'possessed  by  so  few — common  sense.  He  adapted  his  themes  to  his  powers : 
he  chose  subjects  well  understood  by  the  general  public ;  he  gained  the  habit  and  power 
of  distinct  articulation ;  and  the  very  coarseness  which  caused  a  shudder  in  the  refined 
listener,  awoke  the  enthusiasm  of  the  throng." 


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free  ;         But       a       cho-  sen  band,      in       a     mountain  land,    And     a 
track;        And     for    rightgood  cheer,   in     the    wild  woods  here,      Oh! 

™-£             A     ^    •     f-     •         -5-    f-       r      .     f-        ±> 

life         in  the  woo<'sfor 
why    should  a  him-  ter 

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SOME  LOVE    TO   HO  AM. 


203 


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Suffer 

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Where  the     shrill     winds  wins  -  tie 
And    the    prowl  -    ing      wolf    we 

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free  ;               But    a 
track,             And  for 

m  '        ?•  ' 

cho-  sen  band        in       a      mountain  land,     And    a 
right  good  cheer,   In    the    wild  woods  here,      Oh! 

£      «       t       I           T     £         F        F       f           *^ 

life    in  the  woods  for 
why  should  a  hun  -   ter 

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me.              When 
lack  ?          For    with 

i      •»•••*•                  -f-  • 

morn-  ing    beams    o'er      the    moun-tain  streams,  Oh  !   mer  -    ri-  ly  forth   we 
stea  -  dy      aim,       at       the    bound-ing    game,    And  hearts     that   fear     no 

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—  P  —  Js    r\  j  —  —  H—  —  hi  — 

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Saz      *           \      v 

V,               V:                                                                              V, 

,        H      i^,     ! 

roe,            To 
go,             To    the 

0                —     * 

/          V       V                      V          V        "    V          V       V       \               j  ^      ^1 

fol-  low  the  stag     to     his      slip-  per-  y  crag,    And    to 
dark-  some  glade,  in    the      for  -  est   shade,      Oh  I 

0      0^-0    0        0  •    0         0      0^-0    0         0  •  ~*~ 

J  •  J^J  tf  C 

chase      the    bound-ing 
mer  -   ri-ly  forth  we 

r             r    4, 

-I  —  1  —  4  h 

1  ^  —  -F  —  1  

Ci/                Jt 

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p  ?^V  —  P  — 

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f—  T-^-F  —  PT 





~i  1:  —  s:  —  IT" 

0                r           P      - 

[S                      N         [S         [V 

._J  N  fi  JN_ 

^  —  ^  —  ^—  j 

-C-          «C-          -i-            ^0-  *        ^^~        ^^~        ^^~      *w~  •*         ~Jr          -*•          ~ff~ 

roe-l     Ho!    ho!     ho!     ho!       ho!      ho!    ho!     ho!        ho!     ho!     ho! 
go-  j 

«.K                    4..S.                    ^                          v                    « 

V-  V  V  V 

t*      u      w 

ho!        ho!     ho!     ho! 

—  t— 

m    •             •         p 

-f-,  —  f  —  T  —  r  —  i 

1~h^  —  r—    ~H 

~^T- 

r     r    r  =p=q 

r    J  ; 

-1  1^  b  b1  ' 

804 


OUR   FAMILIAE    SONGS. 


rail 


ho!         ho!     ho!     ho!     ho!         ho!     ho!     ho!     ho!         ho!     ho!     ho!        ho! 


r 


1 

J  1 


m 


T 


t      *~ 

Some   love      to     roam      o'er    the     dark     sea    foam,  Where  the     shrill  winds  whis  -  tie 


i 


free;  But    a        eho-  sen  band       in      a      mountain  laud,     And    a       life    in  the  woods  for 


SE 


r  rrr  r 


And    a 


H* 


life      in  the  woods  for  me,    And    a  life     in  the  woods  for     me. 


^ 


m 


l 


^£ 


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CANADIAN   BOAT  SONG. 

THE  following  song  of  TOM  MOORE'S  was  written  during  his  journey  down  the  river  St. 
Lawrence.  He  says,  in  regard  to  its  composition :  "  I  wrote  these  words  to  an  air  which 
boatmen  sung  to  us  very  frequently.  The  wind  was  so  unfavorable,  that  they  were 
obliged  to  row  all  the  way ;  and  we  were  five  days  in  descending  the  river  from  Kingston 
to  Montreal,  exposed  to  an  intense  sun  during  the  day,  and,  at  night,  forced  to  take  shelter 
from  the  dew.s  in  any  miserable  hut  upon  the  banks,  that  would  receive  us.  But  the  mag- 
nificent scenery  of  the  St.  Lawrence  repays  all  these  difficulties.  Our  voyageurs  had  good 
voices,  and  sang  perfectly  in  tune  together.  The  original  words  of  the  air,  to  which  I 
adapted  these  stanzas,  appeared  to  be  a  long,  incoherent  story,  of  which  I  could  under* 
stand  but  little,  from  the  barbarous  pronunciation  of  the  Canadians.  It  begins : 

'  Dans  mon  cheminj'ai  rencontrf 
Deux  Cavaliers  tres-bien  months' 

And  the  refrain  to  every  verse  was, 

'  AF 'ombre  cTun  boisje  m'en  vaisjouer, 
A  Fombre  <fun  boisje  m'en  vais  danser.' 

I  ventured  TO  harmonize  this  air,  and  have  published  it.     Without  that  charm  which  asso 


CANADIAN  BOAT   SONG. 


205 


ciatiou  gives  to  every  little  memorial  of  scenes  or  feelings  that  are  past,  the  melody  may, 
perhaps,  he  thought  common  or  trifling;  but  I  remember  when  we  have  entered  at  sunset, 
upon  one  of  those  beautiful  lakes  into  which  the  St.  Lawrence  so  grandly  and  unexpectedly 
opens,  I  have  heard  this  simple  air  with  a  pleasure  which  the  finest  compositions  of  the 
first  masters  have  never  given  me ;  and  now  there  is  not  a  note  of  it  which  does  not  recall 
to  my  memory  the  dip  of  our  oars  in  the  St.  Lawrence,  the  flight  of  our  boat  down  the 
rapids,  and  all  these  new  and  fanciful  impressions  to  which  my  heart  was  alive  during  the 
whole  of  this  very  interesting  voyage.  The  stanzas  are  supposed  to  be  sung  by  those 
voyageurs  who  go  the  Grande  Portage  by  the  TJtawas  river.  Sir  Alexander  Mackenzie,  in 
his  account  of  the  Fur  Trade,  says :  '  At  the  rapid  of  St.  Ann,  they  are  obliged  to  take  out 
a  part,  if  not  the  whole,  of  their  lading.  It  is  from  this  spot  the  Canadians  consider  they 
take  their  departure,  as  it  possesses  the  last  church  on  the  island,  which  is  dedicated  to 
the  tutelar  saint  of  voyagers.'" 


Faint  -  ly        as      tolls        the        eve    -    ning  chime,     Our         voi  -  ces    keep  tune       and  our 


A       *-  s        Js 

•9-          -9-          4-          4_  *..«.  ^-  -f-  .*-  -9-          -9j          +-   •         +-       -9- 

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=t: 


•  H 


oars       keep    time,  Our       voic-es      keep    tune,     and  our         oars       keep  time; 


$=£=* 


.^__J 


Soon   as    the  woods     on      shore  look  dim,   We'll  sing    at     St.    Ann's  our      part  -  ing  hymn; 

*•     *•        •*•       +• 


v 
Row,  broth  -ers,   row,       the      stream    runs   fast,        The         rap  -ids        are      near,    and    the 

•J*          -9^        -9-  '         -9-          -9- 


-* 9- 


day    -    light's  past,      The       rap  -  ids         are    near,     and  the         day    -    light's  past. 


m 


OUR  FAMILIAR   SONGS. 


•'    UTiy  should  we      yet          our       sail         un  -  furl?      There         is       not       a    breath    the  blue 
3.     U  -    ta    -  wa's  tide,       this       treinb  -  ling  moon  Shall    see      us     float      o'er   thy 

N 


— -^ 0  ~ji. ' 9 

g=R=— *— £=        ~F5r:: 


wave       to       curl, 
sur    -     ges      soon, 


There        is       not       a    breath    the  blue       wave         to    curl; 
Shall    see       us     float     o'er  the          sur     -    ges  soon; 

I 


fL^^^^^_J_  _ 


^ E is !—         —  i-^—*r- 

jEEJEaEgEEEEgEgEEj^ 


But  when  the  wind  blows     off      the  shore,    Oh!    sweetly  we'll  rest      the      wea    -  ry    oar; 
Saint  of  this  green    isle,    hear     our  prayers,  O     grant  us  cool  heav  -ens,     and  fav'ringairs! 

*  .n*  A 


CK—  • — • — • — • — t-p£ — •—  —P— 

sEjrr;-~^=rir:        EgEHF     ^—  *=  =f =Ff ==!*= 


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IX         X         ^ 


j-          -*s — T — ~ — rfr- 


v 
Blow,   breez-es,   blow,       the      stream    runs     fast,        The        rap  -  ids        are    near,      and    the 

•*•  •*•  ^     ^ 

•»-•*•••-•'—     •*•••—     •*-•»•     •*•         -».   -^    -*-'.-*--*- 

i 1 — i 1 — T — « — i — i — * — 0_ «. — ^_ 

^^gEEEEfeJEgEgSEgEES= 


? 


3^3E 


-te- 


day    -    light^£  past,      The       rap  -  ids         are    near,     and  the         day    -    light's  past. 


1 


BRING   FLOWERS. 

MRS.  HEMANS'S  song,  "  Bring  Flowers,"  must  have  been  touched  up  by  the  same  tee 
totaller  who  revised  the  celebrated  convivial  poem  of  Oliver  Wendell  Holmes.  In  some 
versions,  the  second  and  last  lines  of  the  first  stanza  are  replaced  by  those  which  here  follow 
them  in  brackets : 

"  Bring  flowers,  young  flowers,  for  the  festal  board, 
To  wreathe  the  cups  ere  the  wine  is  poured. 
[To  crown  the  feast  that  the  fields  afford,] 
Bring  flowers ;  they  are  springing  in  wood  and  vale, 
Their  breath  floats  out  on  the  southern  gale. 
And  the  touch  of  the  sunbeam'hath  waked  the  rose, 
To  deck  the  hall  where  the;  bright  wine  flows." 
[The  banquet  to  deck  where  the  warm  heart  glows.] 

The  song  was  from  the  poem  of  "The  Bride  of  the  Greek  Isle."  The  air  is  French. 


BEING  FLOWEliti. 


207 

•. -VH 


board, To 

path, lie  hath 


1.  Bring 

2.  Bring 


flow'rs young  flow'rs 

flow'rs to       strew- 


cup ere      the  wine    is  pour'd, 

thrones with    his  storm- y   wrath; 


they  are 
with  the 


breath floats 

vines lie 


=«ZZ=*=-=^  =~ 


1 1 1 1 1 ! 1 1~| H V .^r— - K-r 1 |-| 

^iv== ij=:r^i=fci=^i^:feifc=2==:t:  i-=  =1= 

;— j=»-^— i-~      J^   "J"i^~j  =J=i— J-i—~= 


rose, To       deck the      hall. 

day, ......     Bring    flow'rs to       die.. 


where  the  bright  wine    flows, 
in       the  con  -  queror's  way ! 


Bring  flowers  to  the  captive's  lonely  cell, 
They  have  tales  of  the  joyous  woods  to  tell ; 
Of  the  free,  blue  streams,  and  the  glowing  sky, 
And  the  bright  world  shut  from  his  languid  eye  ; 
They  will  bear  him  a  thought  of  the  sunny  hours, 
And  the  dream  of  his  youth  —  bring  him  flowers, 
wild  flowers, 

Bring  flowers,  fresh  flowers,  for  the  bride  to  wear! 
Thev  were  born  to  blush  in  her  shining  hair; 
She  is  leaving  the  home  of  her  childhood's  mirth, 
She  hath  bid  farewell  to  her  father's  hearth, 
Her  place  is  now  by  another's  side  ; 
Bring  flowers   for   the  locks   of   the  fair  young 
bride  ! 


Bring  flowers,  pale  flowers,  o'er  the  bier  to  shed, 
A  crown  for  the  brow  of  the  early  dead ; 
For  this  its  leaves  hath  the  white  rose  burst, 
For  this  in  the  woods  was  the  violet  nursed; 
Though  they  smile  in  vain  for  what  once  was  ours, 
They  are  love's  last  gift  —  bring  ye  flowers,  pale 
flowers ! 

Bring  flow'rs  to  the  shrine  where  we  kneel  in  prayer, 
They  are  nature's  offering,  their  place  is  there  ! 
They  speak  of  hope  to  the  fainting  heart, 
With  a  voice  of  promise  they  come  and  part ; 
They  sleep  in  dust  through  the  wintry  hours, 
They  break  forth  in  glory  —  bring  flowers,  bright 
flowers  ! 


208  OUR   FAMILIAR    SONGS. 

A  SOUTHERLY  WIND  AND  A  CLOUDY  SKY. 

THIS  is  an  old  English  hunting-song.  It  was  first  published  in  this  country  in  the 
New  York  Mirror,  where  it  appeared  in  1832.  I  give  the  air  to  which  it  was  sung  iu 
England,  and  also  the  "  round"  with  which  many  American  readers  will  be  more  familiar. 


Spiritoso. 


@ 


? 


m 


~W~  ~w~ 

A     south-er  -  ly   wind  and     a      cloud  -  y     sky     Pro-  claim      a    hunt  -  ing       mom  <•  ing;    Be- 


s 


f 


^ 


^±± 


fore  the  sun     ri  -  ses,  we      nim  -  bly      fly,  Dull    sleep  and    a   down  -  y     bed      scor  n  -  ing. 


To   horse !  my    boys !    to   horse,    a  •    way  I  The    chase  ad  -  mils      of       no        de    -     lay  I 
I— fe=*E 


S      N 


-N— t 


-A N- 


> 


— * y- 

On  horse-back  we've  got,     to-geth-er  we'll    trot;  On  horse-back  we've  got,    to-geth-er  we'll 


m 


trot ;  Leave  off  your   chat,  see  the   cov  -  er      ap  -  pear ;  The  hound  that  strikes  first,chocr  him  without 

•* — a ^T — a f      f c — f—i — (* 1 — * — * — a — 


/ 


-» 


T; 


lear ;  Drag  on  him !  ah,wind  him !  my  steady  good  hounds ;  Drag  on  him !  ah,wind  him  I  the  cover  resounds  I 


How  complete  the  cover  and  furze  they  draw  ! 

Who  talks  of  Barry  or  Maynell  ? 
Young  Lasher,  he  flourishes  now  through  the  shaw, 
And  Sauce-box  roars  out  in  his  kennel. 
Away  we  fly,  as  quick  as  thought ; 
The  new-sown  ground  soon  makes  them  fault; 
Cast  round  the  sheep's  train,  cast  round,  cast  round! 
Try  back  the  deep  lane,  —  try  back,  try  back ! 
Hark !    I  hear  some  hound  challenge  in  yonder 

.spring  sedge; 

Comfort  bitch  hits  it  there,  in  that  old  thick  hedge. 
Hark,  forward!  hark,  forward!  have  at  him,  my 

boys! 

Hark,  forward!    hark,    forward!   zounds,   don't 
make  a  noise ! 

A  stormy  sky  o'ercharged  with  rain, 

Both  hounds  and  huntsmen  opposes ; 
In  vain  on  your  mettle  you  try,  boys,  —  in  vain, — 
But  down,  you  must,  to  your  noses. 

Each  moment  now  the  sky  grows  worse, 
Enough  to  make  a  parson  curse : 
Pick  thro'  the  ploughed  ground,  pick  thro',  pick 
thro';  — 


Well  hunted,  good  hounds,  —  well   well  hunted, 

hunted ! 
If  we  can  but  get  on,  we  shall  soon  make  him 

quake,  — 
Hark  !  I  hear  some  hounds  challenge,  in  the  midst 

of  the  brake. 

Tally  ho !  tally  ho,  there  !  across  the  green  plain : 
Tally  ho !  tally  ho,  boys  !  have  at  him  again ! 

Thus  we  ride,  whip  and  spur,  for  a   two-hours' 

chase,  — 

Our  horses  go  panting  and  sobbing: 
Young  Madcap  and  Riot  begin  now  to  race, — 
Ride  on,  sir,  and  give  him  some  mobbing. 
But,  hold,  —  alas  !  you'll  spoil  our  sport, 
For  tho'  the  hound  you'll  head  him  short, 
Clap  round  him,  dear  Jack,  — clap  round,  clap 

round ! 
Hark,  Drummer!    hark,  hark,  hark,  hark,  hark, 

back ! 

He's  jumping  and  dangling  in  every  bush ; 
Little  Riot  has  fastened  his  teeth  in  his  brush  ! 
Who-hoop  !  who-hoop  1  he's  fairly  run  down ! 

Who-hoop,  &c. 


A  tiOUTHESLY  WIND  AND  A  CLOUDY  SKY. 


1.    Allegretto. 


-f  ;  j  J  J 


south-er  -  Iy  wind  and     a     cloud   -    y     sky       Pro- claim         a        hunt- ing    morn -ing; 


~> 

zr- 

K       IS       N       f^'     h"       I1* 

"'I             K        1       '     fv 

i 

£      -N 

J^   1s   y  J  —  J  —  j- 

_J  JJ  J  4J_ 

^      ft  —  ^  —  ^  —  fs  —  £L- 

•>    i. 

1  —  a  •—  —  0  ' 
fore   the    sun   ris  -  es,     a  - 

1  —  0  *  *  0  ' 

way     we    fly,     Dull 

^  —  *i  —  ^  —  ^    JL    ^  ' 

sleep  and    a    drow-  sy    bed 

t*P=p 
•scorn-  ing. 

S      fs 


-K      N       N 


zfgp-fs     fv     ,N-  j*     fnj 
-j-    0      1      4      •      w~^+- 


To  horse!  my  brave  boys,  and    a    -    way!.- 


.    Bright  Phce-bus  the  hills    is       a-   dorn  -    ing  I 

N 


The    face    of     all    na-  ture  looks     gay, 
3-        // 


'Tis  a      beau  -  ti  -  ful  scent-  lay  -  ing    morn  -ing! 


Hark !        hark ! 


for-ward ! 


Tan-ta   -    ra,      tan-  ta  -  ra,     tan-  ta    -    ra ! 


Hark !        hark ! 


for-ward ! 


Tan-ta   -   ra,     tan-ta-ra,      tan-ta   -   raj 


THE  BRAVE   OLD   OAK. 

THE  words  of  "  The  Brave  Old  Oak  "  were  written  by  HENRY  FOTHEEGILL  CHOKLET, 
who  was  born  in  Blackleyhurst,  Lancashire,  England,  December  15,  1808.  He  was  edu- 
cated at  the  Eoyal  Institution,  in  Liverpool,  and  spent  a  few  years  in  a  merchant's  office, 
after  which  he  was  for  thirty  years  musical  critic  on  the  Athenaeum.  He  acquired  literary 
as  well  as  musical  reputation,  and  published  "  Musical  Eecollections,"  "  Music  and  Man- 
ners in  France  and  Germany,"  a  "  Memoir  of  Mrs.  Hemans,"  and  one  hundred  songs.  Ho 
died  in  London,  February  16,  1872. 

The  music  was  written  by  E.  J.  LODER,  an  English  composer,  who  died  a  few  years  ago. 

Slow. 


song     for   the  oak,    the     brave     old    oak,  Who  hath    ruled    in    the  greenwood    long; 
e's  health  and    renown    to  his  broad  green  crown,    And          his      fif  -  ty   arms     so  strong! 
saw    the  rare  times,when  the  Christmas  chimes  were  a       mer    -    ry       sound     to     hear, 


A 

Here's  hei 
He      __.. 
And  the  squire's  wide  hall,  and  the  cot  -  tage  small,    Were 


full         of 


En  -  glish  cheer. 

(S 


\ 


There  is    fear    in  his  frown,when  the  sun  goes  down,  And  the     fire     in    the  west  fades  out,  And  he 
And        all       the      day,    to    the       re- beck  gay,    They         car-  ol'd  with  gladsome  swams.They  are 


210 


OUR  FAMILIAR   ^O.\o>. 

f  Ritani  express. 


show  -  eth    his  might      on      a      wild       mid-night,  When  the  storms  thro'  his  branches      shout, 
gone,    they    are  dead,      in    the   church  -  yard  laid,     But   the    brave  tree,  he  still     re  -   mains. 


i 


Then   sing      to     the  oak,      The  brave      old   oak,       Who     stands     in    his   pride     a  -  lone ;  A 


&E 


it 


jfL 


:£=& 


n=  k    f- 
l    '  i     \/ 


tt 


S 


still      flour  -  ish     he, 


A         hale      green  tree,  When     a       hun  -  dred    years         are      gone. 

+ s_ 


THE  IVY  GREEN. 

CHARLES  DICKENS  was  born  at  Landport,  a  suburb  of  Portsmouth,  England,  February 
7,  1812,  and  died  at  his  place  of  Gad's  Hill,  near  Rochester,  Kent,  on  the  9th  of  June,  1870. 
He  wrote  several  lyrics,  of  which  "  The  Ivy  Green,"  which  appeared  originally  in  the 
"  Pickwick  Papers,"  is  the  only  one  that  has  become  familiar.  It  was  first  published,  as  a 
song,  in  this  country,  and  when  a  London  publisher  wished  to  reproduce  it  in  England, 
Dickens  refused  to  allow  him  to  do  so,  unless  he  paid  ten  guineas  to  the  composer,  HENRY 
RUSSELL.  In  his  melody,  it  seems  to  me,  the  composer  has  failed  to  catch  the  poet's 
meaning.  Dickens's  words  are  as  sombre  and  tender  as  the  vine  that  deepens  the  shadows 
and  softens  the  ruggedness  of  decaying  grandeur  ;  while  Russell's  music  is  as  free  and 
sturdy  as  the  heartiest  oak. 


ad  lib.        a  tempo. 


I.    A  dain  -    ty  plant     is    the      I    -    vy  green,  That  creepeth  o'er   ru  -    ins 


old,. 


Of- 


•«-y-y~-g—4,-  -S-^-^j?-*^ 

~*~         "**  "*"  ~~  ~*  —  —~  —" 


THE    IVY   QBE  EN. 


211 


— •  — *J         Ncr 


right  choice  food  are  his    meals,    I    ween,     In  his    cell         so    lone    and       cold ;  The 


-» * 


&=* 


3= 


-*- 


.> ix—i-; KI- 


wall  must  be  crumbled,  the    stones    decay'd,      To       pleasure  his  dain  -  ty      whim,        And  the 

Quassi  pp  a  colla  voce. 

-£_      __± f.  ' 


./^  TV 


-V— v>-\-S— 


mould'ring   dust      that  years      have  made     Is    a     mer-ry       meal      for     him. 


--_     —  «--    - 


f—  >  ^-T-T^  __     -n 
--    --  —  == 


i/Ts  , 

P 


Creep  -  ing  where  no       life        is     seen,      A      rare       old  plant  is     the       I   -     vy  green. 


Sva. 


^=^ 


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U * P I-L : a L i 4-J 1 f F •• 1 

* ,—  ^»— I  =P • — * — ^ — »— t-s —  t-£~ 

1 1 H — I-H 1- — i 1 1 — 4—* — p— a — * — t^"* — 3 

^ 0 ^— T^ X — ..    ...i,.1 -"-f — r-^      J 


•*•      V        -r     -w 


212 


OUR  FAMILIAR  SONG& 
ad  lib. 


brapjE-T-^gp^c 

•-»     * 


Creep  -  ing  where   no      life        is    seen,      A        rare     old  plant  is    the       I    -   vy  green, 
8va loco.  8va^ 

— T— 1 1 K-T —    — *~-*I^jr7Ji_ 


«;_;,!     =t=g^Z=r--^  £== 

2SB3|5BHBEE^E 


T     T 


-* *- 


-U.I;  . 

J 

—  K—  *  *—  ~j  ^5 

KPl 

Cr 

8va 

1  -*      -     ' 

-&• 

eep    -      ing, 

1  *  1  «L_        ,  *  ___t 
1—0  0  J  

creep    -     ing,                               creep    -      ing  where          u 

r  — 

o 

•0 

fm 

-                     4—                      0 

-*-           —             -*-                       •*-           —             -*-       —             -< 
—  i  T  —  i  '  f  —  •  1  T  —  i  1  '  h 

t 

ftfip  y 

f            \ 

EEt=^  —  ^==$—  =r   ti   =!r=!i  —  ^ 

» 

*T 
CHrb  

1  _,^" 
-rt  -j.- 

-i  — 

3PSE 

i  —  ;  *  7  «  01*  i—  ^  ?  s—  i  7  ; 

—  a  1  —  «  «  *  —  _  f  —  i  —  ^  ^_  —  m  1 

E 

zzzl 


-*•'•*• 


life  is      seen, 

8va... 


Creep    -  ing, 


Creep    -    ing, 


dz: 


7     1> 


- 


m 


-+      -+        •+ 


rare       old    plant     is        the        I 
8va  .............  loco. 


vy    green. 


S=^ 


r 


>     I 


B 


JE^i^-1^^^ 


8-va 


THE    IVY  GREEN. 
loco. 


213 


' — # 


g=  ;*E:*=ft»-«—  =f^?  ^r — ^-d^-?1^^       =§E 


2.  Fast  he  steal  -  eth    on,  tho'  he  wears  no  wings,  And  a  staunch   old  heart   has     he,....      How 

3.  Whole     a -ges  have  fled,  and  their  works  decay'd,      And  nations  have  scat  -  ter'd    been;        But  the 


closely  he    twineth,  how  tight    heelings     To  his  friend,    the  huge    oak        tree!  And 

stout    old     I  -  vy  shall    uev  -  er    fade,  From  its    hale       and  heart  -  y         green;  The 

li!lp^|E^ppplp^=fpEpppPllpll 


L"V»__I.          ~    ! '  i f  ~~i ' 

gg=j=?=j=:::^::==f=r=^==[g:=¥=j=::j 


T  -  ... — .    TT~T — p^ — 


sly  -  ly     he    trail-eth     a   -long    the  ground,  And  his  leaves    he   gent  -  ly      waves,  As    he 

brave       old  plant,  in     its     lone   -   ly  days,    Shall      fatten    up-  on      the    past;  For   the 


5=i=FZ 

!E=E3 


Quassi  pp  a  colla  voce. 


$£3r=a: 

— *- 


—9 1 * 


t^rri. 

JEE^E^=f=^ 

IP I  V— L 


E 


joyous  -  ly  twines,  and    hugs        a  -  round,    The    mould      of  dead    men's  graves, 
stat  -  li  -  est  build  -    ing   man       can  raise      Is  the     I  -  vy's     food      at       last. 


8va. 


p — — -  | <T ry  » 

•••-.•  •*•  -»•  •  >  ^^  -»     •*••*• 


214 


OUJl   FAMILIAR   SONGS. 


Creep  -  ing  where  grim  death    has  been,      A      rare       old  plant  is    the       I     -    vy  green. 
Creep  -  ing  where  no       life       is     seen,      A      rare      old  plant   is    the       I    -    vy  green. 


8va. 


I         *—  t 

-U 1. —    1 0 — F- 

/l        * * 


—= rz^t=3r:q-l — ^— T — r~g^f=  4 


l*r  •*••*•*          Tf        •*•*••*•* 


=^B^ 


Creep  -  ing  whjere   no      life        is    seen,      A        rare     old  plant  is    the        I    -   vy  green, 
8va loco.  8va  . 


" 


— N- 


-Ji£t=jl§t=3=<E£^  '^. 


r 


//  dot. 


Creep    -      ing, 


E 


ft 


1 


creep    -     ing, 


creep    -      ing  where          no 


3=          =5~  3= 

4=£==g=3 r=j=i^==^: 

-  -i  — i ix « ,/ 1— 4! — ^ ,>. 


i     J  z 

w  v 


life  is      seen, 

8va... 


Creep    -  ing, 


Creep    -    ing, 


^=? 


1 


*    »      •*•    •*      •*    -f 


r=i 


THE   IVY  GREEN. 


215 


rare        old    plant     is        the         I      -       vy    green. 


feg^^^^=pj==^^|-=p?^^^- 

U^^^^  M/  •*••£•-=•  •-* 


TYROLESE   EVENING  HYMN. 

FELICIA  DOKOTHEA  BROWNE  was  born  in  Liverpool,  England,  September  21, 1794.  Her 
early  days  were  passed  amid  the  beautiful  scenery  of  north  Wales,  which  fostered  her 
imaginative  nature.  When  eighteen  years  old,  she  married  Captain  Hemans,  who  had  -but 
lately  returned,  with  shattered  health,  from  the  hard-fought  fields  of  Spain,  and  the  fever- 
stricken  ranks  of  the  Walcheren  Expedition.  Six  years  later,  he  left  her  with  a  family  of 
five  little  boys,  and  went  to  reside  in  Italy.  They  never  met  again. 

Mrs.  Hemans  was  beautiful,  with  a  fine  and  graceful  form,  blue  eyes,  and  a  profusion 
of  auburn  hair.  It  was  on  her  portrait,  painted  by  our  countryman,  Benjamin  West,  that 
she  composed  the  poem  which  closes  with  the  lines : 

"  Yet,  look  thou  still  serenely  on, 

And  if  sweet  friends  there  be, 
That  when  my  song  and  soul  are  gone 

Shall  seek  my  form  in  thee, 
Tell  them  of  one  for  whom  'twas  best 

To  flee  away  and  be  at  rest." 

The  sister  who  set  many  of  Mrs.  Hemans's  words  to  music  was  twice  married.  Her 
name  was  Hughes  at  the  time  she  wrote  the  biography  of  the  poetess. 


i      /  5  u.      S)        0                     f 

F^^T^ 

1  fi  —  Rn 

-f  —  f—       —  fe- 

r~^  —  Is  —  f*  —  M 

p     4  1  E 

1.  Come,     come, 
*  D.C.  Come,     come, 

22         1        i     •             *  '       *  ' 

come,      Come         to     the 
come,      Come         to    the 

I 

4  —  E    ^  •    ^ 

sun  -  set     tree;     The 
sun  -  set     tree;     The 

-4.      »      •      * 

day         is         past      and 
day        is        past      and 

dfo    4  J  —  *- 

J      |       1 

i  &—  ri 

—  J  J  '5  —  •  —  R- 

-S--T.  —  f  —  R-T 

2.  Come,     come, 
3.  Corae,      come, 

9%  ft  %    J  p-i 

come,     Sweet        is     the 
come,       Yes,         'tis    the 

—*—\  —  ,  |x—  r 

—  j—>  r~^  —  '  v1  •  ^  — 
hour      of     rest,     Pleas  -ant       the     wood's    low 
tune  -  ful    sount!,  That  dwells      in       whis-p'ring 

3.  Come,     come, 

r  i  J.  —  *-±- 

come,    There       shall  no 

'         ^       J.       ^         $         '  ^ 
tern  -  pests  blow,     No    scorch  -  ing      noon  -  tide 

Iftf-f  f= 

i              /       > 

f        f.        f        -$ 

L^  d  <A  ^_ 

OUR  FAMILIAR   SONG*. 


r*  fi      -i—           .     j  (x  -f^-h=         —  'EEES:--^  k- 

gone;       The   wood  -man's     axe       lies     free,       And 
gone;       The   wood  -man's     axe        lies     free,    (Omit. 

the     reap  -  er's      work       is          done. 

;  

sigh,   And  the  gleam-  ing        of        the    west.       And 
boughs,    Wei  -  come     the      fresh  -  ness   round.      And 

JH-j  -g=.  —^  --^J-     J  . 

the      turf    where  -  on        we          lie; 
the      gale      that      fans      our       brows; 

^H-^    h    h    N!    i  -1 

beat;     There  shall       be         no       more  snow,           No           wea   -    ry,      wan  -  d'ring       feet; 

. 
—  I  —  1  —  -f  -f  •  —    —     i               —  i 

l^i  —  C—  LV  —  £  —  v  —  t—  L-i  *— 

Fine. 

And  the     reap  -  er's      work        is        done.          The 

.  .  —  1  1 
twi  -  light  star        to   heav'n,    And      the 

When  the  bur  -  then  and       the     heat             Of 
But     rest    more  sweet    and     still           Than 

l*tt  •  ft  -t  =^^^I-^^^=E=£==£==I=  -r—  -JH 

^»H    *  —  g  K       "ft              [/              If              1                             |-      J 

So  we 

l^at,   g    ft  —  «  ft  1  N-     ,  .    \     ,- 

m        m             m          m.             m    •         -        i 
lift       our  trust  -  ing    eyes,    From      the 

—  ts  K  [V  N  1  N  *- 

PK  g  g  -i*  —  *    *    J.  r  i  c 
Pf=p=^~  ,.  ft  -j  ^  j  j 

-±-.  —  J^-J  .  —  J  A-.  —  IE 

D.C. 

-  m        m  •    m^       *      m      m      m         & 

*  '  '  r  —  p-^—  £  —  *  •  •  •  • 

sum-mer  dew   to   flow'rs,  And    rest      to     us      is 

given.  By    the     cool,  soft  eve-ning     hours; 

!}r  LU              r                                    ». 

l\       L 

-4  —  fc  —  p  —  f  K  1  &  K      -fc  —  K  K- 

1           N       \          ^      J         ^       ^ 

—.  i  d  •*  -.-.  9  \   .      J>     J  d- 

'in                                     *           m 

la-bor's  task  are     o'er,     And    kind  -  ly     voi-ces    greet       The        tired  one    at     his     door: 
ev  -  er   night-fall    gave,    Our  yearn  -  irig  hearts  shall  fill       In    the    world  be-yond   the    grave  : 

$  r    *   $  ^    J      m^~  J*1    J^  J**  j* 

-fr-ft  |Tl   "ft—  ft~ 

K     —  h  —           —  ^^  '                 —  m  —  -  —  m-  —  m  —  ^  — 

-m  m*    f          —y  V  \T~ 

hills  our    fa-thers   trod,      To      the      qui  -  et   of  the  skies,  To    the      Sab-  bath  of     our      God; 

/  •k.u  1  —  T  1  1  N  N-i  —  >  x  m  1  ri 

^%  N—  m  p  r-              —  ts  N  N  ^  fv 

~i  m'     f     '                     r  P  F  11 

!=E±aE:                bib  —  J  —  J  .    >T  J     m 

:~  ^—  U     U     ^     J             .! 

SONGS  OF  SENTIMENT, 


Whate'er  the  senses  take  or  may  refuse, 

The  mind's  internal  heaven  shall  shed  her  dews 

Of  inspiration  on  the  humblest  lay. 

—  William  Wordsworth. 


By  the  waters  of  life  we  sat  together, 

Hand  in  hand,  in  the  golden  days 
Of  the  beautiful  early  summer  weather, 

When  hours  were  anthems,  and  speech  was  praise. 

—  Richard  Real/. 


And  never  seemed  the  land  so  fair 
As  now,  nor  birds  such  notes  to  shu;, 

Since  first  within  your  shining  hair 
1  wove  the  blossoms  of  the  spring. 

—  Edmund  Clarence  Stedma*. 


I  played  a  soft  and  doleful  air; 

I  sang  an  old  and  moving  story  — 
An  old  rude  song,  that  suited  well 

That  ruin  wild  and  hoary. 

—  Samuel  Taylor  Coleridge. 


SONGS  OF  SENTIMENT, 


THE   LAST   ROSE   OF   SUMMER. 

THIS  is  one  of  the  most  exquisite,  as  well  as  one  of  the  most  widely  popular  of  the 
songs  which  MOORE  wrote  for  old  airs,  and  published  under  the  general  title  of  "  Irish  Mel- 
odies." Its  air  is  altered  from  an  old  one  called  "The  Groves  of  Blarney." 

Rev.  Charles  Wolfe,  author  of  the  "  Burial  of  Sir  John  Moore,"  who  had  a  passionate 
fondness  for  the  Irish  national  melodies,  especially  admired  "  The  Last  Rose  of  Summer," 
and  wrote  the  following  little  story  as  an  introduction  to  it. 

This  is  the  grave  of  Dermid.  He  was  the  best  minstrel  among  us  all, — a  youth  of  ro- 
mantic genius  and  of  the  most  tremulous  and  yet  the  most  impetuous  feeling.  He  knew  all 
our  old  national  airs,  of  every  character  and  description.  According  as  his  song  was  in  a 
lofty  or  a  mournful  strain,  the  village  represented  a  camp  or  a  funeral ;  but  if  Dermid  were 
in  his  merry  mood,  the  lads  and  lasses  were  hurried  into  dance  with  a  giddy  and  irresist- 
ible gaiety. 

One  day,  our  chieftain  committed  a  cruel  and  wanton  outrage  against  one  of  our 
peaceful  villagers.  Dermid's  harp  was  in  his  hand  when  he  heard  it.  With  all  the 
thoughtlessness  and  independent  sensibility  of  a  poet's  indignation,  he  struck  the  chords 
that  never  spoke  without  response,  and  the  detestation  became  universal.  He  was  driven 
from  amongst  us  by  our  enraged  chief;  and  all  his  relations,  and  the  maid  he  loved, 
attended  our  banished  minstrel  into  the  wide  world. 

For  three  years  there  were  no  tidings  of  Dermid,  and  the  song  and  dance  were  silent, — 
when  one  of  our  little  boys  came  running  in,  and  told  us  that  he  saw  Dermid  approaching 
at  a  distance.  Instantly  the  whole  village  was  in  commotion ;  the  youths  and  maidens 
assembled  on  the  green,  and  agreed  to  celebrate  the  arrival  of  their  poet  with  a  dance ; 
they  fixed  upon  the  air  he  was  to  play  for  them, — it  was  the  merriest  of  his  collection. 

•  The  ring  was  formed;  all  looked  eagerly  toward  the  quarter  from  which  he  was  to 
arrive,  determined  to  greet  their  favorite  bard  with  a  cheer.  But  they  were  checked  the 
instant  he  appeared.  He  came  slowly,  and  languidly,  and  loiteringly  along ;  his  counte- 
nance had  a  cold,  dim,  and  careless  aspect,  very  different  from  that  expressive  tearful- 
ness which  marked  his  features,  even  in  his  more  melancholy  moments.  His  harp  was 
swinging  heavily  upon  his  arm ;  it  seemed  a  burden  to  him ;  it  was  much  shattered,  and 
some  of  the  strings  were  broken.  He  looked  at  us  for  a  few  moments ;  then,  relapsing 
into  vacancy,  advanced,  without  quickening  his  pace,  to  his  accustomed  stone,  and  sat 
down  in  silence.  After  a  pause,  we  ventured  to  ask  him  for  his  friends.  He  first  looked 
up  sharply  in  our  faces,  next  down  upon  his  harp,  then  struck  a  few  notes  of  a  wild  and 
desponding  melody,  which  we  had  never  heard  before ;  but  his  hand  dropped,  and  he  did 
not  finish  it.  Again  we  paused.  Then,  knowing  well  that  if  we  could  give  the  smallest 
mirthful  impulse  to  his  feelings,  his  whole  soul  would  soon  follow,  we  asked  him  for  the 
merry  air  we  had  chosen. 


220 


OUR   FAMILIAR   SONGS. 


We  were  surprised  at  the  readiness  with  which  he  seemed  to  comply ;  but  it  was  the 
same  wild  and  heart-breaking  strain  he  had  commenced.  In  fact,  we  found  that  the  soul 
of  the  minstrel  had  become  an  entire  void,  except  one  solitary  ray,  that  vibrated  slug- 
gishly through  its  very  darkest  part.  It  was  like  the  sea  in  a  dark  calm,  which  you  only 
know  to  be  in  motion  by  the  panting  which  you  hear.  He  had  totally  forgotten  every 
trace  of  his  former  strains,  not  only  those  that  were  more  gay  and  airy,  but  even  those  of 
a  more  pensive  cast;  and  he  had  got  in  their  stead  that  one  dreary,  single  melody.  It 
was  about  a  lonely  rose  that  had  outlived  all  his  companions.  This  he  continued  singing 
and  playing  from  day  to  day,  until  he  spread  an  unusual  gloom  over  the  whole  village.  He 
seemed  to  perceive  it,  for  he  retired  to  the  churchyard,  and  remained  singing  it  there  to 
the  day  of  his  death.  The  afflicted  constantly  repaired  to  hear  it,  and  he  died  singing  it  to 
a  maid  who  had  lost  her  lover.  The  orphans  have  learned  it,  and  still  chant  it  over 
poor  Dermid's  grave. 


y  "ft  ttfl  is  j  

f    *ni  —  ^^  ^r                             —  r      l^fc 

1.  'Tis       the      last 
2.    Fll        not    leave 
3,    So                 soon 

Jf      ft  ft  t  J          s» 

'"[/   —  J--  —  J=-3-  ^    r  *  *  J.$ 

rose       of             sum  -  mer,         Left        bloom  -  ing              a    -    - 
thee,    thou          lone       one,          To            pine        on              the 
may       I               fol   -   low         When       friend  -  ships            de    -    - 

n\    *      Y  ZZfiH  "     ~  £J~ 

—  j^-U  —  =    \i  4  —  ' 

,  a  E 

j?*/t        |       -        h=-N- 

J    U            |j        += 

Kb         j         '•    ESE           '^  i  •  —  4—.  —  \  .  ?  \  j^<~  *  0  *"  ^  •  3  —  ' 

-    lone;         All       her     love   -   Ly          com    -    pan  -  ions       Are         fa     -     ded             and 
stem;      Since      the     love   -   ly           are         sleep  -ing,        Go,       sleep       thou           with 
-    cay,         And     from  Love's   shin    -    ing           cir  -  cle         The      gems       drop              a    - 

}             i       Jl 

-<2  1  ^  ,       -^  J  — 

^  ^                                                                                  ^ 

I   <*)3I  %*. 

i                          '                   1                         I'd 

1  ETft  S  —  P  r— 

_^_  _^_ 

* 

w                                                  &                            * 

-J-                      -*-                              -*- 

q>                      *  •  J  -j          ^f     f  ^*     *      J    —  ^JL-^—  1       —  ^f- 

gone  ;                   No 
them.                 Thus 
-   way  I               When 

flow'r      of            her            kin  -  dred,      No           rose  -  bud         is 
kind   -  ly               I             scat   -    ter       Thy       leaves      o'er       the 
true    hearts          lie           with  -  er'd,     And         fond     ones        are 

]?:•*•              "*" 

—*  :                        g           —  •  iL-      —  i  

-*•                                                           -&                             -+                  -i9-                             -*r 

—  «  —  •  —                            —  /^  —             —  r~ 

^  ^  it  S   |"  —  —  i  p  

=F            -T           —  ^  ^=J 

THE   LAST  HOSE    OF   SUMMER. 


To       re  -  fleet    back    her 
Where  thy  mates    of       the 
Oh ! ....      who  would    in 


blush  -  es,  Or  give  sigh 
gar  -  den  Lie  scent  -  less 
hab  -  it  This  bleak  world 


i 


i 


i 


i 


'Tis  the  last  rose  of  summer, 

Left  blooming  alone ; 
All  her  lovely  companions 

Are  faded  and  gone  ; 
No  flower  of  her  kindred, 

No  rosebud  is  nigh, 
To  reflect  back  her  blushes, 

Or  give  sigh  for  sigh  ! 

I'll  not  leave  thee,  thou  lone  one  ! 

To  pine  on  the  stem ; 
Since  the  lovely  are  sleeping, 

Go,  sleep  thou  with  them ; 


Thus  kindly  I  scatter 
Thy  leaves  o'er  the  bed 

Where  thy  mates  of  the  garden 
Lie  scentless  and  dead. 

So  soon  may  /  follow, 

When  friendships  decay, 
And  from  love's  shining  circle 

The  gems  drop  away  ! 
When  true  hearts  lie  withered, 

And  fond  ones  are  flown, 
Oh,  who  would  inhabit 

This  bleak  world  alone  ? 


I'D   BE  A   BUTTERFLY. 

THOMAS  HAYNES  BAYLY  and  his  bride  were  visiting  Lord  Ashtown,  when,  on 
going  to  the  drawing-room  after  dinner,  one  day,  the  gentlemen  found  it  deserted,  and  Mr. 
Bayly  went  to  the  garden  in  pursuit  of  the  ladies.  Seeing  him,, they  playfully  hid  them- 
selves in  the  winding  avenues.  He  followed  floating  laughs  and  laces  a  while,  and  then  sat 
down  in  a  tempting  arbor.  When  the  ladies  joined  him,  he  showed  them  the  manuscript 
of  "  I'd  be  a  Butterfly,"  that  moment  written.  Mrs.  Bayly  composed  an  air,  and  it  was 
sung  that  evening  to  a  large  party  assembled  in  their  honor.  When  the  song  was  after- 
ward published  in  a  little  volume  called  "  The  Loves  of  the  Butterflies,"  dedicated  to  their 
host,  Lord  Ashtown  wrote  the  following  reply  : 


The  butterfly,  in  days  of  old, 
Was  emblem  of  the  soul  we're  told ; 
This  type  to  you  may  well  belong— 
Your  butterfly's  the  soul  of  song. 
Yet  why  to  me  address  the  tale 
Of  loves  that  flutter  in  the  gale ; 
Of  spring,  or  summer's  genial  ray, — 
To  me,  who  hasten  to  decay  ? 


Why  not  address  the  sportive  song 

To  Helen,  beautiful  and  young  ? 

She  well  may  claim  a  minstrel's  skill ; 

Although  a  wife,  a  mistress  still. 

Yet  such  the  magic  of  your  strain, 

Methinks  I  live  and  love  again ; 

Your  voice  recalls  the  pleasing  theme 

Of  hope,  and  joy,  and  "  Love's  young  dream." 


born      in 


pPjr       I      J       ^'      «y      ' 

"*,     •  I        *     g       *       '     »|     a(     aj" 


bow'r,     Where    ro    -    ses    and   lil  -  ies,      and 

* H -K 


^EEf 


=1= 


^EE 


'Z-~ — m —     ~~f —      "L  1 

. •» .    » ~  *  '(j      *      . 

i         T     rp          T    !/          T       ^       ^^^ 


222 


OUR   FAMILIAR    SONGS. 


;zf  :Et~  — f- — f_ — » — - 

1> — 3>~ 


vi  -   o  -    lets  meet; 


Rov  -    ing   for  -  ev  -  er       from     flow  -   er      to    flow  -er,      aiid 


*      ¥ 


-0 P- 


kiss-ing     all       buds      that  are      pret  -  ty      and   sweet. 


I'd       nev  -  er    Ian  -  guish  for 


^pE^E^E^^^^^^ti  ^=^^E^iz=piE£^i 


— 


* 


—  —  fr— 

—  =fc=  =* 


lentando. 

| 


••j  ••  _j — > 4— | — : — £~i~| I  — fei 


wealth      or    for      pow-er, 


I'd       nev  -  er      sigh       to    see  slaves      at      my    feet ; 


: i ~    -i       :     ; .   -~\~-\ ^  z?*czn±zi:  _4 q 

T^l — -  -    g    ..TzjrgzT^.j    .i       j '       n~  ^:  _^ g« :      M i 

n=S— -i — g^^gzi^E^z-zig—z-^r^EgE;  £=E|=g» — j=3        * 

-»         -»  •*       -*         •»         -*•  +      -0- 

— »—      =1=   —  i— ^T-^ — >  '-A        - 1 =T-» f 4 » — ^ 

=g=         j-* — ^ — =|3 — » — =t- — - * 1= 

••• « -l-_! 1 


._T~_-p p  --fr*^ J 

4^z=— j-— *—-—*— 
— 0— i  —  j^        grv~j 


I'd        be      a    but  -  ter  -  fly,         born        in      a    bow'r,        And    kiss  -ing    all       buds       that  are 

•N- 


— -—      — i — i-I— e —  ; V.D 

^   EE|^EE|EjEE|^^=Epl±E^  EE§EEE|E  EE^d 


— IX- 


-<i— 0- 


pret-ty     and  sweet, 


Fd"          be      a     but -ter -fly,  I'd  be      a     but  -  ter -fly, 

8va... 


aps 


E 


Jg^l^=gj^PE^3EEfe=R±EEl 


I'D  BE  A  BUTTERFLY. 


223 


==*»:rp  :fcj 
.  —  F  --  1  —  ,  ---  j  •  —  _  —  _  —  , 


_  —  _ 
~ 


kiss-ing  all     buds    that  are  pretty   and  sweet. 


Oh,  could  I  pilfer  the  wand  of  a  fairy, 

I'd  have  a  pair  of  those  beautiful  wings ; 
Their  summer  day's  ramble  is  sportive  and  airy, 

They  sleep  in  a  rose  when  the  nightingale  sings. 
Those  who  have  wealth  must  be  watchful  and  wary, 

Power,  alas !  naught  but  misery  brings ; 
I'd  be  a  butterfly,  sportive  and  airy, 

Rocked  in  a  rose  when  the  nightingale  sings. 


What  though  you  tell  me  each  gay  little  rover, 

Shrinks  from  the  breath  of  the  first  autumn  day; 
Surely,  'tis  better  when  summer  is  over, 

To  die,  when  all  fair  things  are  fading  away. 
Some  in  life's  winter  may  toil  to  discover 

Means  of  procuring  a  weary  delay : 
I'd  be  a  butterfly,  living  a  rover, 

Dying  when  fair  things  are  fading  away. 


Mr.  Bayly  afterwards  made  a  little  parody  on  his  own  song,  which  he  entitled,  "  FD  BE 
A  PARODY." 


I'd  be  a  parody,  made  by  a  ninny, 

On  some  little  song  with  a  popular  tune, 
Not  worth  a  halfpenny,  sold  for  a  guinea, 

And  sung  in  the  Strand  by  the  light  of  the  moon. 
Pd  never  sigh  for  the  sense  of  a  Pliny, 

(Who  cares  for  sense  at  St.  James's  in  June  ?) 
Pd  be  a  parody,  made  by  a  ninny, 

And  sung  in  the  Strand  by  the  light  of  the  moon. 

Oh,  could  I  pick  up  a  thought  or  a  stanza, 
I'd  take  a  flight  on  another  bard's  wings, 

Turning  his  rhymes  into  extravaganza, 
Laugh  at  his  harp,  and  then  pilfer  its  strings  I 


When  a  poll-parrot  can  croak  the  cadenza 
A  nightingale  loves,  he  supposes  he  sings ! 

Oh,  never  mind,  I  will  pick  up  a  stanza. 
Laugh  at  his  harp,  and  then  pilfer  its  strings ! 

What  though  they  tell  me  each  metrical  puppy, 

Can  make  of  such  parodies  two  pair  a  day, 
Mocking-birds  think  they  obtain  by  each  copy 

Paradise  plumes  for  the  parodied  iay. 
Ladder  of  fame !  if  man  can't  reach  the  top,  he 

Is  right  to  sing  just  as  high  up  as  he  may  ; 
I'd  be  a  parody  made  by  a  puppy, 

Who  makes  of  such  parodies  two  pair  a  day. 


THOSE  EVENING  BELLS. 

THOMAS  MOORE  is  the  author  of  this  song,  which  is  one  of  the  "  National  Melodies." 
The  air  to  which  he  arranged  the  words  is  called  "  The  Bells  of  St.  Petersburg." 


iSL'b  2                             I*  t 

r  \         M        s 

-4   -N     i        »      1 

1.  Those    ev'n      -      ing       bells, 
2.  Those     joy      -      ous      hours 
3.    And      so            'twill        be 

those      ev'n       -        ing       bells,       How 
are       past                 a    -     way,         And 
when       I                   am       gone, 

4  —  1_-  u  —  c  — 

—  t  —  t  —  ^  —  i 

ma  -  ny         a 
ma  -  11  v         a 
That  tune  -  ful 

••  i    i          "*  r         i  1 

~l^    *'       1 

E^SEE::                        —r- 

T  —  *  1 

:  j   •   j    *      |     •     •    t         i   .  .    0 

*           -            ' 

JZ~               + 

•  •*•                      ->•  -0-                    —  (•  •* 

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f\'     2          r    *y                  \    *y 

j     jj,                          r     ,j> 

i      ' 

2_£-^=5_4=p_         —  i-£— 

—  4-+^^  —  g  

-\—&-  

224 


OUR  FAMILIAR  SONGS. 


tale--.,  their  mu 
heart,....  that  then 
...  will  still 


sic 
was 
ring 


tells, Of      youth 

gay,....  With  -  in.... 
on, While    oth 


and 
the 
•  er 


home 
tomb 
bards 


and    that    sweet 
now    dark   -  ly 
shall   walk    these 


time,       When  last 
dwells,      And  hears 
dells,         And    sing 


I     heard 
no    more 
your  praise, 


their  sooth 
those  ev'n 
sweet  ev'n 


-  ing 

•  ing 

-  ing 


chime  ! 

bells! 

bells! 


Of        youth          and 
With  -    "in the 

While      oth       -       er 


m 


home  and  that  sweet  time,  When  last  I  heard 
tomb  now  dark  -  ly  dwells,  And  hears  no  more 
bards  shall  walk  these  dells,  And  sing  your  praise, 


their    sooth     -    ing  chime! 
those    ev'n       -    ing  bells! 
sweet  ev'n       -   ing  bells! 


LET  ERIN  REMEMBER. 

THOMAS  MOORE,  in  this  song,  refers  to  an  old  historical  fact,  and  an  old  tradition  of  his 
country.  Malachi  was  King  of  Ireland,  in  the  tenth  century.  In  a  battle  with  the  Danes, 
he  successively  defeated  two  champions,  in  a  hand-to-hand  encounter,  and  took  from  one 
his  sword,  from  the  other  his  collar  of  gold.  The  second  stanza  refers  to  a  fisherman's 
tradition,  that  when  the  water  of  Lough  Neagh  was  clear,  they  could  see  in  its  depths  the 
spires  of  towns  that  had  once  stood  upon  its  hanks.  The  air  is  called  '"  The  Red  Fox." 


LET  ERIN  JSEMEMBER  THE  DAYS'  OF  OLD. 

K — | h K-T--J * »r-r- 


225 


1.  Let      E    -     rin    remem  -  ber      the    days       of        old,      Ere    her      faith  -    less  sons      be   - 

2.  On  Lough    Neagh's  bank,     as       the      fisherman      strays,  When  the    clear,       cold  eve's      de   - 


5=t=j^=*=  ^=:=i==fa=:=jzf^ 

•*-* ': -43. 1- 


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«/                                                        _^.                                                                      i/        i/ 

-  trayed              her;    When    Ma    -    la    -  chi    wore       the              col  -lar      of       gold, 
-     cli           -        ning,     He       sees       the  round   tow    -  ers    of        oth      -      er       days 

Which   he 
In      the 

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won    from  her    proud    in    -      va 
wave      be       -   neath    him       shin 


der;       When    her      kings,  with     stan  -  dard     of 
ing;         Thus  shall    mem  -   'ry        oft   -   en,      in 


-         J         J          I         4* 
^i=z*=z5i==i^=it 


_^( m         _i « 4 3^_ 

-         if    *         -      * 


green     un    -    f url'd,  Led    the        Red  -   Branch    knights  to       dan  -      ger ;—  Ere  the 

dreams    sub  -     lime,  Catch    a      glimpse    of       the    days      that  are         o  -         ver;  Thus 


Btr-f p_,_L=n— = 


226 


OUR  FAMILIAR   SONGS. 


-O* 


>!!_„_->_ 


jrT"--T-»       ^—v 

z=£ 

-~_ * 


7~V 


em   -  'raid    gem     of  the    west  -  era   world    Was        set       in    the  crown  of      a    stran     -    ger. 
sighlng,look  thro'     the        waves    of      time,  For  the   long     fa  -  ded   glo  -  ries  they    cov    -      er. 

4- 


DAYS  OF  ABSENCE. 

THE  melody,  and  probably  the  words  of  the  thrice-familiar  song  which  follows,  were 
written  by  JEAN  JACQUES  ROUSSEAU,  the  celebrated  French  author,  in  1775.  He  was  born 
in  Geneva,  June  28,  1712,  and  was  descended  from  a  family  of  Paris  booksellers  and  Pro- 
testant refugees.  His  mother,  the  daughter  of  a  clergyman,  died  when  he  was  born,  and 
his  grief  that  he  should  have  met  so  bitter  a  loss  was  often  referred  to  by  him.  Although 
he  was  a  very  delicate  boy,  before  he  was  nine  years  old,  he  had  spent  whole  nights  in 
reading  novels  with  his  father,  who  had  a  visionary  and  restless  disposition.  From  an 
engineer,  a  lawyer,  and  an  engraver,  with  whom  he  lived  successively,  he  picked  up  a 
varied  fund  of  information.  After  a  series  of  adventures  of  the  most  romantic  and  miser- 
able sort,  he  devoted  himself  to  the  study  of  music,  which  he  afterward  taught,  and 
invented  a  new  system  of  musical  notation.  He  published  several  operas  and  musical 
works,  before  he  turned  his  whole  attention  to  the  writings  for  which  he  is  chiefly  known. 
Rousseau  died  at  Ermonville,  near  Paris,  July  2,  1778.  His  melody  has  now  been  so  long 
associated  in  our  minds  with  its  hymn-book  title  of  "Greenville,"  that  it  seems  odd 
to  connect  it  with  this  French  love  song.  In  Europe  it  is  called  "  Rousseau's  Dream." 

Fine. 


m 


[Days  of  ab- sence,  sad  and  drear  -  y,  Cloth'd  in  sor- row's  dark  ar  -  ray;  ) 
I  Days  of  ab  -  sence,  I  am  wea  -  ry,  She  I  love  is  far  a  -  way.  f 
When  the  hea  -  vy  sigh  be  ban-isli'd;  When  this  bos  -  om  cease  to  mourn? 


&£ 

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fct 


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Hours      of     bliss,  too     quick- ly       van-ishM,     When      will  aught     like     you        re  -  turn; 


m 


3=       J       J 
i 1     i          F- 

h      I     I          l  = 


Not  till   that  loved  voice  can  greet  me, 

Which  so  oft  has  charmed  mine  ear, 
Not  till  those  sweet  eyes  can  meet  me, 

Telling  that  I  still  am  dear: 
Days  of  absence  then  will  vanish, 

Joy  will  all  my  pangs  repay; 
Soon  my  bosom's  idol  banish 

Gloom,  but  felt  when  she's  awav.  • 


All  my  love  is  turned  to  sadness, 

Absence  pays  the  tender  vow, 
Hopes  that  filled  the  heart  with  gladnes 

Memory  turns  to  anguish  now; 
Love  may  yet  return  to  greet  me, 

Hope  may  take  the  place  of  pain; 
Antoinette  with  kisses  meet  me, 

Breathing  love  and  peace  again. 


EEIN!    THE    TEAR. 


227 


ERIN,    THE  TEAR. 

THE  following  song  of  THOMAS  MOORE'S  is  one  of  the  many  which  SIR  JOHN  ANDREW 
STEVENSON  arranged  to  old  Irish  airs.  Stevenson  was  born  in  1761,  in  Dublin,  Ireland, 
where  his  father  was  a  professor  of  music.  When  ten  years  old,  he  was  received  into  the 
choir  school  of  Christ  Church,  where  he  soon  gave  promise  of  the  fine  abilities  that  after- 
ward distinguished  him.  He  was  made  choral- vicar  of  Dublin  Cathedral,  and  was  knighted. 
He  produced  an  oratorio  entitled  "The  Thanksgiving,"  and  anthems  and  glees  that  are  still 
popular.  He  died,  September  14,  1833.  The  air  to  which  "Erin!  the  Tear"  is  sung  is. 
"  Aileen  Aroon,"  which  is  the  true  old  Irish  form  of  the  beautiful  "  Kobin  Adair." 


ffi? 

—  A  —  E 



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-    rin,         the           tear             and    the           smile       in        thine 
-    rin,        thy             si       -       lent  tear           nev   -    er       shall 

eyes 
cease; 

fi-f 

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Blend     like       the  rain    -        bow    that         hangs       in         thy 

E    -     rin!      thy  Ian      -      guid    smile          ne'er     shall        in 


skies ! 
crease, 


if 


r-fH 

•»  — 

1  —  IK  —  :  E  1 

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Shin  - 
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like         the 

p*^*^~*^— 

sor    -        row's  stream, 
rain     -     bow's  light, 

—  5j-  1- 

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Sad  -  d'ning    thro' 
Thy        va  -    rious 

-i        1     i  hJ     *  .  «! 

pleas    - 
tints 

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—  '  —  ; 

228 


OL'h'    FAMILIAR    SONGX. 


mm 


—^^ 

Thy         suns        with      doubt      -     ful    gleam        Weep    while     they  rise! 

And        form         in          Hta      -      en's    sight  One      arch       of  peace  I 


B 


m 


O  SAY  NOT  THAT  MY  HEART  IS  COLD! 

WHEN  CHARLES  WOLFE  had  written  this  song,  and  was  arranging  it  to  the  exquisite 
old  Irish  melody  called  "  Grammachree,"  his  feelings  so  overpowered  him,  that  to  give  then? 
expression  he  immediately  wrote  the  well-known  poem,  "To  Mary,"  which  begins— 

"  If  I  had  thought  thou  could'st  have  died, 

I  might  not  weep  for  thee ; 
But  I  forgot,  when  by  thy  side 
That  thou  could'st  mortal  be." 


IE?  1  *  R  f~      ~~l  —  *~~ 

N         ..                ^ 

1.    O       say       not   that      my      heart       is    cold       To    aught     that  once    could  warm  it—  That 
2.  Still     oft      those  sol  -   emn    scenes        I   view       In    wrapt     and  dream  -  v     sad-ness  —  Oft 
3.  Stern  Du    -    ty   rose,     and.    frown  -  ing,  flung     His      lead-    en  chain       "a-  round  me  ;  With 

/  XL  j  k  /  »  M      f~-     i     d  —                !  —  «  J  si  —                       —  i  —  —  =  — 

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^[)      :  —  ^          *      V         *          s     —  ~j  P  —           —  f  — 
\f                                                                  —  ^  »^  —  —  ^  U1  — 
Na  -  ture's  form,    so        dear        of        old,      No     more      has     p 
look       on  those    who      loved     them      too,    With     fan  -    cy's 
i    -      ron    look    and         sul   -    len     tongue,  He      mut  -  ter'd 

_«_=£zf= 
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ower      to      charm  it  ; 
i    -      die       gladness 
as         he     bound  me, 

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^^  i?  r  '  —              ***•**- 

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taJ  — 

O  SA  Y  NOT  THAT  MY  HEART  IS  COLD! 


229 


JOB 

xL-b-H 

•>  1  5  K-  y  1-;  P  ^  1>  1 

^^  —  J^-E^I  r  ^  r 

*tfr^ 
V 

^  p  '  —  I 

that     th'un-gen  -  erous     world     can       chill      One    gk 
-gain         I  longed      to        view      the       light        In       K 
mount  -  ain  breeze,  the      bound  -  less    heav'n,    Un  -   f 

>w       of       fond        e    -     mo-tion,     For 
a  -  ture's      feat  -   ures     glow-ing,       A- 
t        for       toil       the       creature;   These 

j           J            I            1           J             „         \ 

Ll_ 

C-J*  —  r  (Lr~L^f-^-i 

^  ^           \  '         ?  *  

,  —     _j__  :  —  9  4  

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»  m  •  "t"   <  —  m  —  i 

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r/  .  . 

&  *  A           A  0 

I                  K                •>                     S                                    1  1 

^^     rl      L 

»                           U            1*               9              f    '            U            \                 P 

J             i             f^             K                    IS    1 

(0) 

J           J             J^                    i      II 

*               9    •    .                                     J        1  1 

-i 

those       who  made       it        dear    -     er      still,     And 
-gain         to     tread      the      mount  -  ain's  height,  And 
for          the     free         a    -    lone        are    given  —  But 

shared    my       wild        de  -    vo  -  tion. 
taste      the       soul's      o'er  -  flow  -  ing. 
what    have      slaves     with      iia-  ture!" 

A    k 

r"""11"""""'     r**\    -     h 

y  , 

*         A                                J          t      ~  \9          J 

II 

/L  b  ^ 

>                             9           m          9                                  f 

1                II 

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1*                   »           * 

*                                                      1! 

^!y 

«                        *  r                2 

2                  1                  J  •          i§ 

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T^                      51 

• 

/•V  •_ 

•1                                                             »                                        A 

r                    r                   it  •          II 

PA  !? 

»                                        *                                                                                   P 

r  •           II 

r                 r                 --^.                      i/ 

1                                  m                               1                        II 

TWILIGHT   DEWS. 

BOTH  the  words  and  the  music  of  this  song,  which  has  long  been  a  favorite  serenade, 
were  written  by  THOMAS  MOORE. 


A  tt 

i  •(      i 

ri 

V  EL 

J                    N.                                \ 

n 

k.       ^      r 

*           i 

/k    F"     ^ 

-1              J                1     '              ^        J 

j  j 

J            aZ~35  H3 

v  pi 

frn     x 

f              €               J                                 *     '            M 

m          *m 

*  •                i  M 

J«< 

^L>     9E     p| 

9-9          9    •         9,        9    ' 

i             i 

•  •       f      J  i 

j  *  . 

^/ 

1.  When 
2.  There's 

^ 

9 

twi  -  light  dews      are    fall   -  ing 
not       a      gar  -  den  walk       I 

-«-        •»-                                                  -0- 
9—^  9-i  —  *—  !  — 

r 

fast,     Up   - 
take,  There's 

-9-        -*• 

*     -1* 

on        the     ro   -   sy 
not         a  flower    I 

4-  —  9  9  +— 

e        •> 

lea,              I 
see,            But 

uf          ^j 

j^^*f--    J 

-\  P  P  

T  —  r  —  r~~^  —  r~~ 

-1  \—f  —  u 

=tf  «  M 

I              J              J                   1                IS 

^  i  r  1* 

i                        N   T 

_i_l  _  —  i  1 

j^  4ri^ 

*     J  r  - 

1                                I           M 

h.           4 

1i 

xT     J 

-J  —  —  J—     L-*  M  •  —  4  — 

~m              * 

--iH  N-^—  J- 

—  i  —  s—  1 

^j>-^  —  9  

'  9     *\     0    .  9— 

~*  *— 

--•H  —  «  —  ^=*- 

—  i  —  **     i 

watch     1 
brings 

r 

hat      star      whose    beam       so 
to       mind     some      hope    that's 

^       n  ^.  ^ 
—  f  —  *  —  r~^~  —  i*  — 

1 

oft        Has 
fled,    Some 

-9-          -9- 

1  r- 

light   -   ed     me 
joy       I've  lost 

N 

i  f:  y  ?. 

and     thee. 
with    thee  5 

•—•-  —  F—  r  i 

J  L  — 

i*  • 

230 


OUli   FAMILIAR    SONGS. 


i.,.1      thnni     too      on     that        orb        so      dear,      Ah!        dost    thou    gaze      at    oven,       And 
And       still'      I  '  w°sh    that      hour      was    near,   When,  friends  and     foes     for- given,     The 


rfMfc 

H  — 

^       *  J  1 

J  . 

i  33fE 

- 

E5  *~tt 

Sh 

3  —  -i  —  *  —  -4^- 

think,     tlio'       lost       for     - 
pains,     the        ills      we've 

Lf    f    f    e    -i 

ev    -    er     he 
wept     thro*  he 

re,  Thou'lt 
re,  May 

»  .«- 

IT 

V 

til 

M  1  %»?»     f- 

fit         be     mine         in 
rn        to    smiles         in 

ft.  . 

J  "    II 

3 

heav'n? 
heav'n. 

H 

H^=E 

—  F  — 

9—  0  

»  —  r  — 

"~"~~c  —  r^  —  L 

"      II 

STARS  OF  THE  SUMMER   NIGHT. 

THESE  peculiarly  melodious  words  are  from  LONGFELLOW'S  "  Spanish  Student,"  and 
the  air  which  suits  them  so  finely,  was  written  by  ALFRED  H.  PEASE,  one  of  the  most  suc- 
cessful of  our  American  composers.  He  was  born  in  Cleveland,  Ohio,  about  1838,  and 
•when  very  young,  manifested  great  love  for  music,  and  considerable  power  of  producing  it. 
Before  he  was  six  years  old,  he  could  play  melodies  upon  the  piano,  with  accuracy,  impro- 
vising unique  variations.  Yet  his  friends  were  so  opposed  to  his  becoming  a  professional 
musician,  that  he  was  educated  without  reference  to  this  inch' nation.  At  the  age  of 
eighteen  he  left  college,  and  went  to  Europe  for  his  health.  His  studies  were  completed 
in  Germany,  in  whose  musical  atmosphere  his  ruling  passion  became  so  strong,  that  the 
consent  of  his  parents  was  finally  obtained,  and  he  devoted  himself  to  music  under  the 
most  eminent  masters.  He  composed  the  music  of  more  than  eighty  songs,  but  is  best 
known  as  a  writer  of  opera  and  orchestral  music,  and  as  an  accomplished  pianist.  He 
long  resided  in  New  York  City,  and  died  in  St.  Louis,  July  13,  1882. 


Allegretto. 


By  special  permission  of  George  Schirmer,  publisher. 


of        the    sum  -  mer  night ! 


in       yon       a    -    zure    deeps, 


STABS    OF    THE   HUMMER    NIGHT. 
P 


231 


in    ' 


-tsr 

Hide,  hide    your     gold  -  en    light!        She    sleeps! my       la       -     dy  sleeps! 


zzzzqzzzz 1 =1=4 zEzzz=zzz iz 

zzzzlEg^E 


Siz^zzrfz:gzzzi^zzizzzziiW=izzzzr»zi»zzzz:iz 
3?ikIff?:fck2?— 5— ^-z~±— -i— y— P-1— '— ?H  31— 9— 4- 


Moon 


— ^ —  — J— 4— ^—      — ~zzzzzzzl  zz5zz:  z~* — ?r :' 

of        the     sum    -     mer    night!  Far  down   yon 


-»  •-• 0 0 ' « 0- 

•*•-*•  •»     •*  •»     •* 


;zr^E:       JzrizqFi^lz^ 


:^ 


west     -  tern  steeps,         Sink,  sink       in        sil    -      ver  light !  She      sleeps ! 


my 


«_J  1 •* "          ] y ! 

T      i^i.   . 


"*    *  ••»  -»•»-»-*-»  *    »  T 


\  -  ^~gj^  -  11         -  g  Jil"^  ---  H  -  =—  •  I  --  •  —  -  jj  —  p— 

dy  sleeps  !        sleeps  !  sleeps  I 


I 


la     - 


*  I**    ^*  .A 


OUR  FAMILIAR   SONGS. 


Winds  of       the        sum  -  mor    night!  Where         yon  -    der 

dj* f-  *- £-£•_  -f-  f- 

w=rT»T^^^5^E£^^^3^^^feE 

— _ J--  •     •  —  — -M— i — 

****„**.,       **  --    — ^ 


•*•••• 


^ 


^ r-=^  ~  ^^^^  =^»  ^^ 

EEE^^^SE 


rrx^>  ~s— h-  — a^ 

s^^^^^;=^3 


wood  -  bine  creeps,         Fold.  fold     your  pin  -  ions  light !  She    sleeps ! 


•^•:~;    j=F==E=j 


2=F=?^=P 


— 


=iia—  g=g==**  rz|=  =*=  ==:===- 

*        *^  *•  *•    "     ^'-J       ^^  —       *  •* 


LJ         —      .. 


£=F± 


Dreams        of        the     sum  -  mer night!  Tell  her,      her     lov  -    er       keeps 


~  '- 


Watch,  while          in       slum       -       bers  light  She         sleeps! 


cres. 


ia!=^=  :=ipz*: 
55          55 


STARS   OF    THE  8U}tMBS   NIGHT. 


233 


irtezz+jzi^r-  r*=«=i=ih 

ET^=f 


Stars  of  the  summer  night ! 
Far  in  your  azure  deeps, 
Hide,  hide  your  golden  light! 

She  sleeps! 
My  lady  sleeps ! 
Sleeps ! 

Moon  of  the  summer  night! 

Far  down  yon  western  steeps, 
Sink,  sink  in  silver  light! 

She  sleeps ! 
My  lady  sleeps ! 
Sleeps ! 


Wind  of  the  summer  night! 

Where  yonder  woodbine  creeps, 
Fold,  fold  thy  pinions  light! 

She  sleeps ! 
My  lady  sleeps ! 
Sleeps ! 

Dreams  of  the  summer  night ! 

Tell  her,  her  lover  keeps 
Watch,  while  in  slumbers  light 

She  sleeps ! 
My  lady  sleeps ! 
Sleeps ! 


MY  LIFE  IS  LIKE  THE  SUMMER  ROSE. 

EICHARD  HENKT  WILDE,  author  of  "  My  Life  is  like  the  Summer  Kose,"  was  born  in 
Dublin,  Ireland,  September  24,  1789.  Just  after  his  birth,  the  family  came  to  this  country, 
und  suffered  the  total  loss  of  a  considerable  fortune.  Mr.  Wilde  died,  and  his  widow 
opened  a  milliner's  store  in  Augusta,  Georgia.  Her  little  son,  Eichard  Henry,  was  her 
clerk  by  day,  and  her  pupil  at  night.  He  studied  with  delight,  and  rapidly  developed 
remarkable  powers.  Italian  literature  gave  him  peculiar  pleasure,  and  after  serving  two 
terms  in  Congress,  he  went  to  Italy,  where  he  discovered  valuable  documents  which  threw 
light  upon  the  life  and  times  of  Dante.  He  also  learned  that  there  was  upon  the  wall  of 
the  chapel  of  Barghello,  a  painting  by  Giotto,  and,  finally,  obtained  money  and  permission 
to  investigate.  The  whitewash  had  been  carefully  removed  from  two  sides  without  result, 
but  upon  the  third  the  painting  was  discovered.  Wilde  returned  to  this  country,  practiced 
law  very  successfully  in  New  Orleans,  and  held  the  professorship  of  common  law  in  the 
University  of  Louisiana.  He  died  in  New  Orleans,  September  10,  1846. 

The  following  lyric  was  the  subject  of  a  long  literary  debate.  The  North  American 
Review  made  a  bold  charge  of  plagiarism,  because  a  Greek  ode  had  come  to  light,  purport 
ing  to  have  been  written  by  Alcseus,  which  contained  the  ideas  expressed  in  Mr.  Wilde's 
poem.  The  same  article  said  that  an  almost  verbatim  copy  of  the  English  version  had 
been  published  as  originating  with  O'Kelly,  author  of  the  "  Curse  of  Doneraile."  The 
reviewer  supposed  both  to  have  been  translated  from  the  Greek  ode.  The  charge  became 
so  serious  and  wide-spread,  that  Mr.  Wilde  wrote  to  the  gentleman  who,  he  understood,  had 
translated  his  song  into  Greek,  and  received  in  reply  from  Mr.  Anthony  Barclay,  for  many- 
years  a  resident  of  Savannah,  the  following  statements : 


234  OUR   FAMILIAL'    >OAV,.s. 

•'  I  was  not  apprised,  when  I  addressed  you  on  the  9th  inst.,  nor  for  some  days  after, 
that  my  prose  translation  into  Greek,  of  your  beautiful  ode,  beginning— 

'  My  life  is  like  tlie  summer  rose' 

had  been  published.  It  was  written  for  individual  amusement  with  exclusively  half  a 
dozen  acquaintance  in  Savannah,  and  without  the  slightest  intention  of  its  going  farther. 
This  assertion  will  account  for  the  abundant  defects,  and  they  will  vouch  for  its  truth." 

In  a  letter  dated  from  New  Orleans,  February  14, 1846,  and  addressed  to  a  lady  in  New 
York,  Mr.  Wilde  explains  the  origin  of  the  song.  I  am  indebted  to  the  lady's  daughter, 
Mrs.  Loyall  Farragut,  for  the  kind  permission  to  copy  it. 

"Since  you  have  requested  it,  to  whom  I  should  be  ashamed  to  deny  anything  of  much 
more  consequence,  I  send  you  the  lines  inclosed;  premising,  to  forestall  the  suspicion  of 
vanity — that  vice  which  so  easily  besets  all  men,  especially  the  irritable  genus — that 
my  estimate  of  their  value  is  very  different  from  yours.  They  were  written  very  long 
ago,  before  I  had  forsworn  rhyming,  though  not  before  I  was  aware  how  little  it 
contributes  to  one's  success  in  life,  or  rather,  how  often  it  impairs  one's  usefulness  and 
reputation. 

"  These  stanzas  were  originally  designed  as  part  of  a  longer  poem,  which,  like  the 
life  of  him  for  whose  sake  I  projected  it,  was  broken  off  unfinished,  and  are  far  from 
containing,  however  the  contrary  may  have  been  supposed,  any  allusion  to  myself.  They 
were  suggested  by  the  story  of  Juan  Ortez's  captivity  among  the  Indians — the  last  sur- 
vivor of  Panfilo  de  Narvaez's  ill-fated  expedition,  as  the  locality  of  Tampa  will  evince ;  bur 
finding  their  way  to  the  press  without  my  consent,  and  much  to  my  annoyance,  even  the 
place  was  changed  to  Tempe,  and  the  scene  thus  transferred,  not  without  a  blunder,  from 
the  sea-coast  of  Florida  to  the  interior  of  Greece. 

"  I  never  could  account  for  the  interest  the  public  has  taken  in  this  fragment,  except 
from  the  circumstance  that,  after  having  long  circulated  unclaimed  and  unacknowledged, 
it  all  at  once  found  almost  as  many  to  confess  to  its  paternity  as  the  '  Child  of  Thirty-six 
Fathers !'  Besides  its  putative  parents,  Alcaeus  and  O'Kelly,  Captain  Basil  Hall  has  been 
kind  enough  to  find  a  mother  for  it  in  the  person  of  the  Countess  Purgstall — see  his 
'Schloss  Hainfelt,' — which  remains  to  this  moment  uncontradicted ;  for  who  would  forfeit 
their  reputation  for  gallantry,  by  robbing  a  dead  lady's  grave  of  one  sprig  of  bay  ?" 

To  the  autograph  copy  of  the  verses  which  accompanies  the  letter,  Mr.  Wilde  affixes 
the  date,  1815. 

In  a  letter  from  Mr.  Wilde  to  the  New  York  Mirror,  of  February  28,  1835,  are  the  fol- 
lowing additional  particulars :  "  My  brother,  the  late  James  Wilde,  was  an  officer  of  th& 
United  States,  and  held  a  subaltern  rank  in  the  expedition  of  Colonel  John  Williams  against 
the  Semiuole  Indians,  of  Florida,  which  first  broke  up  their  towns  and  stopped  their  atroci- 
ties. When  James  returned,  he  amused  my  brother,  my  sisters,  and  myself,  with  descrip- 
tions of  the  orange  groves  and  transparent  lakes,  the  beauty  of  the  St.  John's  river,  and  of 
the  woods  and  swamps  of  Florida,— a  kind  of  fairyland,  of  which  we  then  knew  little, 
except  from  Bartram's  ecstasies— interspersed  with  anecdotes  of  his  campaign  and  com- 
panions. I  used  to  laugh,  and  tell  him  I'd  immortalize  his  exploits  in  an  epic.  Some 
stanzas  were  accordingly  written,  for  the  amusement  of  the  family  at  our  meeting.  That, 
alas !  was  destined  never  to  take  place.  He  was  killed  in  a  duel. *  His  violent  and  melan- 
choly death  put  an  end  to  my  poem ;  the  third  stanza  of  the  first  fragment,  which  alludes- 
to  his  fate,  being  all  that  was  written  afterward : 


JftT  LIFE  IS  LIKE  THE  SUMMER  HOSE.  236 

' I,  too,  had  once  a  brother;  he  was  there 

Among  the  foremost,  bravest  of  the  brave ; 
To  him  this  lay  was  framed  with  fruitless  care ; 

Sisters  for  him  the  sigh  in  secret  gave ; 
For  him  a  mother  poured  the  fervent  prayer. 

But  sigh  or  prayer  availeth  not  to  save 
A  generous  victim  in  a  villain's  snare : 

He  found  a  bloody  but  inglorious  grave, 

And  never  nobler  heart  was  racked  by  baser  glaive.' 

The  verses,,  particularly  the  '  Lament  of  the  Captive/  [the  other  title  for  this  lyric],  were 
read  by  the  family  and  some  intimate  acquaintances ;  among  the  rest,  the  present  Secretary 
of  State,  and  a  gentleman,  then  a  student  of  medicine,  now  a  distinguished  physician  in 
Philadelphia.  The  latter  after  much  importunity  procured  from  me,  for  a  lady  in  that 
city,  a  copy  of  'My  life  is  like  the  summer  rose/  with  an  injunction  against  publicity, — 
which  the  lady  herself  did  not  violate ;  but  a  musical  composer  to  whom  she  gave  the 
words  for  the  purpose  of  setting  them,  did,  and  they  appeared,  I  think,  first  in  1815  or 
1816,  with  my  name  and  addition  at  full  length,  to  my  no  small  annoyance.  Still,  I  never 
avowed  them ;  and  though  continually  republished  in  the  newspapers  with  my  name,  and  a 
poetical  reply,  I  maintained  that  newspapers  were  no  authority,  and  refused  to  answer 
further."  Mr.  Wilde  also  points  to  the  fact  that  the  description  of  the  "  rose"  applies  to  a 
species  of  Florida  rose,  which  "  opens,  fades,  and  perishes  during  the  summer  in  less  than 
twelve  hours." 

The  music  was  composed  by  CHARLES  THIBAULT. 


My    life    is         like....    the    summer      rose,....          That-       o -pens    to    the     morn    -     ing 


236 


OUR   FAMILIAR   SONGS. 


bed,  The  sweetest    dews   of  night       are    shed,  As     if      she  wept  the  waste     to 


see,        But  none  shall  weep  a  tear  for  me  1 ....   But  none  shall  weep         a    tear  for  me  I 


i         r  T  r  r  r     __L— -^  >—  *  *  *  * 


— «•-+-*- 


My  life  is  like  the  summer  rose, 

That  opens  to  the  morning  sky, 
But  ere  the  shades  of  evening  close, 
Is  scattered  on  the  ground  to  die : 
Yet  on  the  rose's  humble  bed 
The  sweetest  dews  of  night  are  shed, 
As  if  she  wept  the  waste  to  see, 
But  none  shall  weep  a  tear  for  me  ! 

My  life  is  like  the  autumn  leaf, 

That  trembles  in  the  moon's  pale  ray ; 

Its  hold  is  frail  —  its  date  is  brief, 
Restless  —  and  soon  to  pass  away! 


Yet  ere  that  leaf  shall  fall  and  fade, 
The  parent  tree  will  mourn  its  shade, 
The  winds  bewail  the  leafless  tree, 
But  none  shall  breathe  a  sigh  for  me  ! 

My  life  is  like  the  prints  which  feet 
Have  left  on  Tampa's  desert  strand  — 

Soon  as  the  rising  tide  shall  beat, 
His  track  will  vanish  from  the  sand ; 

Yet,  as  if  grieving  to  efface 

All  vestige  of  the  human  race, 

On  that  lone  shore  loud  moans  the  sea,. 

But  none  shall  e'er  lament  for  me  ! 


LOVE    NOT. 

MRS.  CAROLINE  NORTON'S  sorrowful  domestic  experience  might  well  have  been  the- 
inspiration  of  her  song  «  Love  Not."    The  music  was  written  by  JOHN  BLOCKLEY. 


Love      not ! 
Love      not  1 


love      not! 
love      not ! 


ye      hap  -  less      sons      of       clay; 
the   thing    you      love    may     die, — 


Hope's      gay  -  cst 
May        per  -  ish 


LOVE    NOT. 


237 


are    made 
the     gay 


of      earth  -    ly  flowers  — 
and      glad  -  some   earth  ; 


Things       that      are     made  to 

The  si   -   lent     stars,         the 


fade,    and  fall      a  -   way, 
blue     and  smil-  ing      sky, 

4-^£-A 


Ere      they  have    blos-somed  for  a        few....  short    hours, 
Beam      on     its     grave,    as  once  up  -    on....      its       birth, 


9       9 

Ere         they  have     blos-somed     for    a        few. 
Beam         on      its     grave,     as     once  up    -    on 


short  hours. 
its     -birth. 


Love  not!  love....   not! 
Love  not!  love....    not! 


f r> 


£=ii 


J— 


:£= 


&EE 


•*-*• 


Love  not,  love  not !  ye  hapless  sons  of  clay ! 
Hope's    gayest  wreaths    are  made    of   earthly 

flowers  — 

Things  that  are  made  to  fade  and  fall  away, 
Ere  they  have  blossomed  for  a  few  short  hours. 
Love  not! 

Love  not !  the  thing  ye  love  may  change ; 

The  rosy  lip  may  cease  to  smile  on  you, 
The  kindly-beaming  eye  grow  cold  and  strange, 

The  heart  still  warmly  beat,  yet  not  be  true ! 
Love  not ! 


Love  not!  the  thing  you  love  may  die, — 

May    perish    from    the     gay     and     gladsome 

earth ; 

The  silent  stars,  the  blue  and  smiling  sky, 
Beam  o'er  its  grave,  as  once  upon  its  birth. 
Love  not ! 

Love  not !  O  warning  vainly  said 

In  present  hours  as  in  years  gone  by! 

Love  flings  a  halo  round  the  dear  ones'  head 
Faultless,  immortal,  till  they  change  or  die. 
Love  not ! 


COME,   PLAY   ME  THAT   SIMPLE  AIR. 

THOMAS  MOORE  wrote,  and  often-  sang  this  familiar  song.  He  could  sing  his  own 
songs  as  no  artist  has  been  able  to  sing  them,  and  Byron,  Scott,  and  many  others  have 
testified  to  their  great  delight  in  hearing  him.  The  melody  is  from  a  Waltz  by  Labitzky. 


1.  Come,  play  me- that  sim  -  pie        air    a -gain,      I       used  so      to     love  in     life's  young  day, And 

2.  Sweet      air!      how    ev  -   'ry     note  brings  back  Some      sun    -    ny  hope,  some  day-dream  bright,That 

3.  But      sing  me  the  well-known     air  once  more,  For   thoughts     of  youth  still  haunt    its  strain,Like 


I 


* 


r 


238 


OUR    FAMILIAR    SONGS. 


Fine. 


bring,  if      thou   canst,    the     dreams  that    then    Were    wak-en'd     by         that  sweet        lay. 

Bhm    -      ing      o'er     life's      ear  -    ly     track,  Fill'd     ev  -    en       its        tears  with        light 

charms         of     some     far        fui  -    ry     shore  We're    nev  -  er        to          see       a     -     earn 


t, 
gain. 


S=^ 


m 


5? 


^ 


t 


3E3 


The      ten  -    der  gloom 
The     new-  found   life 
Still    those    loved  notes 


its  strain 

that         came, 
pro    -      long, 


Shed     o'er         the    heart 
With  love's      first     ech 
For    sweet         is      that 


and 
oed 
old 


£ 


brow, 
vow; 
lay, 


Grief's 
The 
In 


•/\h  

!               2          «'           *» 

J  t?J 

9 

f         4 

.  ^       ^  . 

{dy   g  »  —  *  *•*— 

J* 

«  9  «  

t     '                 m           II 

shad    -    ow,  without     its         pain,              Say           where,      where     is        it              now? 
fear,       the    bliss,       the       shame,            Say           where,      where  are     they            now? 
dreams       of     love        and         song,             To           breathe      life's  love      a       -        way. 
»            f        »                                     X         i                           -.-                           XX 

j~r-.  9  ,  0-±-                                ,  ,  ^  >^  — 

r  — 

0  

t 

L  . 

I 

f                     f 

^M?  — 

v  — 

—  ?;?  — 

_ 

f 

~  —  r  —  r  —  r  — 

1  1~ 

! 

1 

p    p    p 

LOVE'S  YOUNG   DREAM. 

THESE  are  characteristic  words  by  THOMAS  MOORE  ;  but  the  ancient  Irish  melody  to 
which  they  are  sung,  is  appropriately  entitled  "  The  Old  Woman."  In  the  Memoirs  of  Sir 
Jonah  Barrington,  it  is  related  that  a  lady  of  high  rank,  listening,  as  he  poured  out  a  melt- 
ing love-ditty,  laid  her  hand  upon  his  arm,  exclaiming,  "  For  heaven's  sake,  Moore,  stop, 
stop !  this  is  not  good  for  my  soul."  Moore  himself  was  often  so  affected,  that  voice 
failed  him.  He  writes  in  his  diary,  of  a  certain  occasion,  "  If  I  had  given  way,  I  should 
have  burst  out  a  crying ;  as  I  remember  doing  many  years  ago  at  a  large  party  at  Lady 
Rothe's.  No  one  believes  how  much  I  am  affected  in  singing,  partly  from  being  touched 
myself,  and  partly  from  an  anxiety  to  touch  others." 

8  p.   , 


s 


• 


"S 


* 

1.  Oh  I      the         days       are    gone    when  Beau  -   ty    bright     My  heart's 

2.  Tho'     the         bard        to      pur    -    er  fame     may   soar    When  wild 

3.  Oh  I     that          hal  -  low'd  form       is  ne'er      for  -  got,  Which  first 


chain 

youth's 

love 


LOVE'S   YOUNG  DREAM. 


wove;          When      my  dream      of      life,      from  morn      till    night,    Was    love,  still 

past:  Tho'       he       win       the    wise,     who  frown'd    be  -  fore,       To     smile  at 

traced;  Still         it,      lin  -  g'ring,  haunts    the   green-   est     spot       On     mem     -     ry's 


m 


m 


-j  j  j  j 


^ 


love.  New  hope     may  bloom,  And    days      may  come      Of      mild  -   er,    calm  -    er 

last,  He'll  nev  -    er     meet       A       joy         so    sweet,     In        all        his    noon      of 

waste.  'Twas  o    -    dor     fled       As      soon       as      shed; 'Twas  morn-  ing's  wing  -   ed 


m 


mm 


^: 


beam,  But    there's    no  -  thing      half        so    sweet        in       life        As    love's          young 

fame,  As      when   first      he       sung       to       wo  -  man's    ear,      His     soul      -      felt 

dream;        'Twas       a      light    that     ne'er      can    shine        a   -   gain      On     life's  dull 


lentando. 


tempo. 


J-        J.        I    J 


dream;  No,  there's  no-thing  half  so  sweet  in  life  As  love's  young 
flame,  And,  at  ev'  -  ry  close,  she  blush'd  to  hear  The  one  lov'a 
stream  :  Oh  !  'twas  light  that  ne'er  can  shine  a  -  gain  On  life's  dull 


dream. 
name. 
stream. 


240  OUR    FAMILIAR    SOX(rS. 

WHEN   THE   NIGHT-WIND   BEWAILETH. 

THE  words  of  this  song  were  written  by  EPES  SARGENT,  and  the  music  was  composed 
by  WILLIAM  E.  DEMPSTER. 


r-p—        —  ^1 

^ 

f 

.     * 

—  *  —  : 

S  V-i 

s  —  K- 

H  M 

-f^—  fr-sHH 

{jfr-A  f   J" 

**    I.  When  the 
2.  Through 
3.        The 

J              —  £-~V  ^  —     •  h          -^  *— 

night-wind       be  -  wail  -  eth     the      fall            of    the 
mem  -   o    -    rv's  chambers,    the    forms          of     the 
trees     of        the    for  -  est    shall    bios    -     som     a  - 

-4—      —  J  4  —  —  j)  3-^-| 

year,         And  sweeps  from      the 
past,         The     joys      of         my 
gain;    And  the   wild  bird     shall 

r/^V      /*           ' 

j    J    _, 

j 

j     - 

•  "j 

*    «    i 

d       m        m 

*        mm 

5 

1  i  1 

? 

1 

-» 

h    4 

i 

-    -1 

| 

^   *   * 

-1-1-1          -*r         -*-       -4- 

|_|            |            |      1 

J       «J       W 

EJi  1 

4 

:     *     3 

1  

HH 

•     •     • 
^   +•   ~+ 

1  j.  4  JH 

'I    4  P 

/L        n           K     «H       K. 

j  "                                        ^ 

i*      i*      r 

r             *  ' 

^—  J—          H   jv 

w             h            r 

^  4  4- 

—  H  '*-.  y 

—  —  y  H  — 

—  *  —    —  P—  -«  —  pi  —  '  —  m       --~'  —          —  •  —  v  *•  —                                         —  v  — 

for  -    est         The  leaves    that       are       sere;....           I     wake     from      my     slum  -  ber,      And 
child-  hood       Rush    by      with       the      blast!....    And  the  lost      one    whose   beau-   ty           I 
car    -    ol            A      soul  -  thrill  -    ing      strain;....  But  the  heart,    fate       has      with  -  er'd,      No 

(nY~ 

1  1  

~l  i  r 

1  — 

\  -j  1 

- 

—  '••H  —  i  — 

—  i 

—  h— 

^—  -          4 

4 

J 

fj      j 

J 

•  J    J    J          - 

. 

J           '      m      " 

t    4  * 

*   4 

*    4    3 

=^ 

-1-1-1        •*-      -3 

333     3    3 

—  i  1  —  ._(  — 

--    i    4 

t  —  • 

—33* 

-^r— 

l          #          d    ] 

:  * 

i  —  i  —  • 

~1  1  * 

t 

1  *T~" 

+     *    * 


7     7 


^ 


list 
used 
spring 


to    the      roar;       And    it      saith     to 

to      a  -   dore,      Seems  to      sigh   with 

shall  re  -   store,       And   its    songs  shall 


my 
the 
be 


spir  -  it, 

night  breeze,  "  No 

joy  -  ful         No 


more,  nev  -  er 
more,  nev  -  er 
more,  nev  -  cr 


moreP'And  it 
morc!"lomy 
more  !  And  its 


saith  to  my 
heart  seems  to 
songs  shall  be 


spir-it,    "No          more,     nev-er    more!     nev-er     more! 
murmur  "No  more,     nev-er     more!     nev-er     morel 

joy-ful       No  more,     nev-er     more!     nev-er     more! 


WHEN  THE  NIGHT- WIND  BEWAILETH 

rail,  fi  ^ ^     ^ ^     ^ 


241 


Oh!. 
Oh!. 
Oh!. 


nev  -  er  more  I". 
nev-er  more!". 
nev  -  er  more ! . . 


EILEEN    AROON. 

THE  author  of  the  words  of  "  Eileen  Aroon,"  GERALD  GRIFFIN,  was  born  in  Limerick, 
Ireland,  December  12,  1803.  When  he  was  seventeen  years  old,  his  family  came  to  the 
United  States  without  him.  Having  determined  to  become  an  author,  young  Griffin  went 
to  London  with  some  plays,  which  failed  then,  but  one  of  which,  "  Gisippus,"  was  pro- 
duced most  successfully  after  his  death.  He  became  a  brilliant  and  distinguished  writer 
for  papers  and  magazines ;  but  he  won  no  wide  reputation  until  the  appearance  of  his  fine 
novel  "  The  Colleen  Bawn,  or  the  Collegians."  He  died  in  Cork,  June  12,  1840. 

The  air  to  which  his  song  was  set  is  old,  and  a  great  favorite — "  Eobin  Adair  j"  but 
it  is  claimed  by  Ireland  as  well  as  Scotland,  where  it  is  traced  far  back  under  the  title  of 
"Eileen  Aroon."  In  the  Irish  form,  the  air  is  simplicity  itself,  but  the  Scottish  form  has, 
an  added  "lilt."  Burns  once  wrote  to  Thomson:  "I  have  tried  my  hand  on  'Robin 
Adair,'  and  you  will  probably  think  with  little  success ;  but  it  is  such  a  cursed,  cramp,  out- 
of-the-way  measure,  that  I  despair  of  doing  anything  better  to  it." 

Samuel  Lover,  quoting  this  remark  of  Burns',  adds :  "  Now,  the  Irish  air  in  its  original 
purity,  is  as  smooth  as  an  unbroken  ascending  and  descending  scale  can  make  it ;  it  is  any- 
thing but  the  'cursed,  cramp,  out-of-the-way  measure'  of  which  Burns'  sensitive  ear  was. 
so  conscious  in  the  Scotch  form."  The  famous  French  opera,  "La  Dame  Blanche,"  by 
Francois  Adrieu  Boieldieu,  is  founded  on  this  air. 
Andante. 


t 


like       the       ear    -     ly   rose,     Ei   -   leen 


-    roonl 


Beau   -   ty 


espresstvo 


(16) 


842 


OUR 


SONGS. 


JL  2  f~~"~1  —                     &  j*  — 

-*  f  *--  —  ^  '    f  —  E= 

child-  hood's  blows,  Ei   -   leen        a     -     roon!    ' 

~$~fi  —  ~\  —  j  —  <~l  —  n^™  '^^   j  |  - 

1  i  —  «  —  • 

WTien,     like         a             di    -      a  -  dem, 

"  J-      ^  j  J  [ELECT 

I  r  r  r  f  r'r-  ^   i  ! 

JV  f   f   f  —  j  —  t  f   r  r  i*">  -7 

•   ^  r  1  i    '  J=F^^B 

£>•                         -J—  *  —  i  —  U    [^f  -f 

Buds  blush  a  -   round      the  stem,  Which   is         the        fa 

0    b     J      -1     -!—  r-l  K  r-J     -.TTTl  r  - 

—  Ea  —  ^  «  J  —   -ii 

r  •   est  gem?    Ei  -  leen     a    -    roon! 

Is     J                                       In 

/fuy    |  —  f  —  i  j—                                •    J    J  -d 

^.  —  e  —  ^  h-                     i    ^H 

S^  —  *****-  -g-=  —  j  —  i       \   fif    f  ^t 

t  d  —  9—-*  —  i  —  *  ^       1 

% 

X3       .                                     /^'      .                                         ^       .                                                 (T 

2      . 

^X  t=..,.             —  [  ....  •            -\  .  . 

-                ^~\  —  ^"-"x7^ 

z  tp  Lj£  L_p 

When,  like  the  early  rose, 

Eileen  aroon ! 
Beauty  in  childhood  blows, 

Eileen  aroon ! 
When,  like  a  diadem, 
Buds  blush  around  the  stem, 
Which  is  the  fairest  gem? 

Eileen  aroon ! 

Is  it  the  laughing  eye, 

Eileen  aroon! 
Is-it  the  timid  sigh, 

Eileen  aroon ! 
Is  it  the  tender  tone, 
Soft  as  the  stringed  harp's  moan? 
Oh,  it  is  truth  alone, 

Eileen  aroon ! 

When,  like  the  rising  day, 

Eileen  aroon ! 
Love  sends  his  early  ray, 

Eileen  aroon! 

What  makes  his  dawning  glow 
Changeless  through  joy  and  woe? 
Only  the  constant  know  — 

Eileen  aroon! 

I  know  a  valley  fair, 

Eileen  aroon  I 
I  knew  a  cottage  there, 

Eileen  aroon ! 


Far  in  that  valley's  shade, 
I  knew  a  gentle  maid, 
Flower  of  a  hazel  glade, 
Eileen  aroon ! 

Who  in  the  song  so  sweet? 

Eileen  aroon ! 
Who  in  the  dance  so  fleet? 

Eileen  aroon! 

Dear  were  her  charms  to  me, 
Dearer  her  .laughter  —  free, 
Dearest  her  constancy, 

Eileen  aroon ! 

Were  she  no  longer  true, 
Eileen  aroon ! 

What  should  her  lover  do? 
Eileen  aroon ! 

Fly  with  his  broken  chain 

Far  o'er  the  sounding  main, 

Never  to  love  again, 

Eileen  aroon ! 

Youth  must  with  time  decay, 
Eileen  aroon ! 

Beauty  must  fade  away, 
Eileen  aroon ! 

Castles  are  sacked  in  war, 

Chieftains  are  scattered  far, 

Truth  is  a  fix£d  star, 

Eileen  aroon ! 


GO!    FORGET   ME! 

GO!    FORGET    ME! 


243 


KEY.  CHARLES  WOLFE  wrote  the  words  of  the  following  song.  The  music  is  from 
MOZART,  who  wrote  many  pleasing  songs. 

WOLFGANG  MOZART  is  a  rare  instance  of  an  infant  prodigy,  whose  intellectual  powers 
grew  with  the  boy's  growth  to  manhood.  At  four  years  old,  he  could  play  the  harpsichord 
correctly,  and  in  that  year  he  made  a  concerto  to  be  played  upon  it.  A  year  later,  he,  with 
his  musical  little  sister,  was  the  wonder  of  the  Imperial  Court.  At  eight,  he  played  the 
organ  at  the  English  court,  and  only  his  compositions  were  played  in,  public  concerts.  The 
facts  of  his  troubled  life  are  familiar.  u  Idomeneo,"  the  opera  which  won  him  the  lady 
he  loved,  is  one  of  his  favorite  compositions;  but  perhaps  "  Don  Giovanni"  is  considered 
his  greatest  dramatic  work.  When  it  was  being  rehearsed  in  Prague,  he  said  to  the  chapel- 
master,  who  was  praising  the  work :  "  People  err  if  they  think  my  art  has  cost  me  no 
trouble ;  I  assure  you,  my  dear  friend,  no  one  has  taken  such  pains  with  the  study  of  com- 
position as  I.  There  is  hardly  a  celebrated  master  in  music  whom  I  have  not  carefully 
and,  in  many  cases,  several  times,  studied  through!"  Mozart  was  born  in  Salzburg,  Ger- 
many, January  27,  1756,  and  died  in  Vienna,  December  5,  1791.  The  air  of  "  Go !  forget 
me!"  like  "  Days  of  Absence,"  is  familiar  in  sacred  music. 


.  v 


1.  Go!      for- get       me!    why   should    sor-row         O'er      that  brow   a          shad  -   ow  fling? 


Go !      for  -  get   me  1      and,       to  -   mor  -  row,       Bright-ly        smile        and  sweet-  ly   §ing. — 


Smile  tho'    I     shall    not       be  nearthee;    Sing    tho'  I    should     nev  -   er   hearthee: 


*,     i     na. 
^f  ^ 


244 


OUR    FAMILIAR    SONGS. 


May       thy  soul      with  pleas  -  ure    shine, 


Last  -   ing       as      the  gloom  of     mine. 


^=F=5 


EZ: 


Go,  forget  me,  why  should  sorrow, 
O'er  that  brow  a  shadow  fling; 

Go,  forget  me,  and  to-morrow 
Brightly  smile  and  sweetly  sing. 

Smile,  though  I  shall  not  be  near  thee ; 

Sing,  though  I  should  never  hear  thee ; 
May  thy  soul  with  pleasure  shine, 
Lasting  as  the  gloom  of  mine. 

Like  the  sun,  thy  presence  glowing, 
Clothes  the  meanest  thing  in  light; 

And  when  thou,  like  him,  art  going, 
Loveliest  objects  fade  in  night. 


All  things  looked  so  bright  about  thee 
That  they  nothing  seem  without  thee : 
By  that  pure  and  lucid  mind, 
Earthly  things  were  too  refined. 

Go,  thou  vision  wildly  gleaming, 
Softly  on  my  soul  that  fell ; 

Go,  for  me  no  longer  beaming, — 
Hope  and  beauty,  fare  ye  well ! 

Go,  and  all  that  once  delighted, 

Take,  and  leave  me  all  benighted;  — 
Glory's  burning,  generous  swell, 
Fancy  and  the  poet's  shell. 


THE   FOUR-LEAVED   SHAMROCK. 

THIS  song  is  one  of  a  series  upon  the  "  Superstitions  of  Ireland,"  written  by  SAMUEL 
LOVER,  who  also  made  the  music.  The  four-leaved  shamrock,  so  rarely  found,  is  supposed 
to  endue  the  finder  with  magic  power.  Moore  somewhere  says,  it  is  traditionally  related 
that  St.  Patrick  made  use  of  the  species  of  trefoil  called  the  shamrock,  in  explaining  the 
doctrine  of  the  Trinity  to  the  Pagan  Irish,  and  thus  it  was  adopted  as  the  national  emblem: 
and  Miss  Beaufort,  in  the  "Transactions  of  the  Royal  Academy,"  remarks  that  "it  is  a 
curious-  coincidence  the  trefoil  plant  (shamroc  and  shamrakh,  in  Arabic)  having  been  held 
sacred  in  Iran,  and  considered  emblematical  of  the  Persian  Triad." 


:g_^_J=^=r 


1.  I'll       seek      a      four  -  loav'd  shamrock, 

2.  To      worth,    I    would  give    hon-or, 

3.  The      heart   that  had    been    mourning, 


In  all       the   fai  -    ry      dells,  And 

I'd  dry       the    mourner's    tears,  And 

O'er        van  -  ish'd  dreams  of     love,  Should 


THE  FO UB- LEAVED  SHAMROCK. 


245 


!y=n^ 


if        I       find     the       charme'd    leaves,  Oh!       how     I'll    weave     my       spells;......        I 

to       the     pal   -lid        lip       re  -  call,    The       smile    of       hap  -  pier       years, And 

see    them    all       re   -  turn  -  ing,  Like       No  -  ah's      faith  -  ful         dove And 


3C3C      ~^- 

fiS  —  *— 

I^_PL_ 

« 

I* 

—  b- 

—  1  

2 
~f5  

\J 

~*  «        0  •             0—  3 

•f 
would 
hearts 
hope 

.  *        ^~ 

not    waste    my 
that     had     been 
should  launch  her 

mag 
long 
bless 

-   ic    might 
es  -  trang'd, 
-   ed     bark 

On 

And 
On 

dia  - 
friends 
Sor  - 

mond, 
that 
row's 

^                 .-.^  |_  ^  -* 

pearl,      or      gold,           For 
had    grown  cold,         Should 
dark'  -  ning    sea,           And 

JL  U 

3 

-^<1 

—Is     ] 

^^^^ 

1  srH 

cpr  ~b  — 

—  —  t  — 

/ 

—  *— 

—  7— 

^  — 

Sj  

-*— 

if  

"=l 

j  5  — 

Vr  )/ 

5  ; 

2 

i__ 

- 

^ 

±"                     1 

*•           •*•                                 -*. 

^g;  r. 

—  9  — 

—  * 

-9— 

« 
—  b  — 

/ 

"1       \ 

d 

—  1  

9  — 

=  ^ 

(P 


ritard. 

ad  lib. 

a 

tempo. 

fa*  ?     -*    - 

» 

:^3 

:£ 

:_^ 

H 

—  •  — 

-1*       f     "* 

—j— 

HS—  q 

-  —  £  3 

treas  - 
meet 
Mis'  - 

ure 
a    - 
ry's 

tires 
gain 
child 

» 
the 
like 
-  ren 

wea 

part 
have 

—  h- 

-  ry 
-  ed 
an 

sense, 
streams, 
ark, 

/ 
Such          tri  - 
And           min 
And         sav'd 

{;*"* 

umph 
-  gle 
from 

is 
as 
sink  - 

—  i— 

but  cole 
of    old; 
ing    be; 

;         But 
Oh! 
Oh! 

—  *  — 

—  |— 

»  

-'- 

J  

*-T— 

—  i  *- 

- 

, 


'-i* 

^r   ^       ? 

-    d  — 

*~^~         9       " 

I*  ; 

9                         --       -j 

0                           0                            -,  

b  -•  ••  - 

"'-* 

-f  •             ~7*       3* 

4     ,       -N- 

—  ,s 

JC 

i 

would 

plav 

th' 

enchanter's  part,    In 

4  -     i 

cast  -ing 

bliss 

a    - 

round, 

Oh! 

thus 

I'd 

p'av 

th' 

enchanter's  part,  Thus 

scat  -  ter 

bliss 

a    - 

round, 

And 

thus 

I'd 

play 

th' 

enchanter's  part,  Thus 

scat  -  ter 

bliss 

a    - 

round, 

And 

-&—^  =^ 

pEp?3E35E 


246 


or/,1    F.\.MI1.1AR   SONGS, 
ad  lib. 


' — "f*~  T~~         •="=    *  -iE"'_  j*  -  -0—» — '-*-*• 


." 


not 


a        tear       nor       ach   -  ing      heart.  Should    in       the  world    be    found,  Should 

s 


rfr — f — *       i       IL 


m 


in      the     world     be    found 


|H  ^s=f=s^=Jz=f=f=j=  =t=£fc»tt* 


!« 


P 


EH 


*  *~~  -0-      -0-      -0- 

i_A_jL_JL-5LjE : 

— • — * — — — \~. — i 


THE  LASS  OF   RICHMOND   HILL. 

IN  the  memoirs  of  Mrs.  Fitz-Herbert,  Lord  Stourton  says  that  her  beauty  was  cele- 
brated in  a  popular  song,  which  refers  to  the  addresses  of  the  heir  apparent. 

"  I'd  crowns  resign  to  call  her  mine, 
Sweet  lass  of  Richmond  Hill." 

A  letter  published  in  the  London  Times,  and  dated  from  the  Garrick  Club,  March 
30,  1856,  signed  "The  Grandson  of  the  Lass  of  Richmond  Hill,"  says:  "Lord  Stourton  is 
wrong.  This  popular  song  was  written  by  LEONAKD  MORALLY  (bora  September  27, 1752),  a 
man  of  some  repute  in  his  day,  as  a  barrister  as  well  as  an  author.  'The  Lass  of  Richmond 
Hill,'  was  written  in  honor  of  Miss  Janson,  the  daughter  of  Mr.  William  Jauson,  of  Richmond 
Hill,  Leybourne,  Yorkshire,  a  lady  to  whom  he  was  married  at  St.  George's,  Hanover 
Square,  on  the  16th  of  January,  1787.  In  addition  to  '  The  Lass  of  Richmond  Hill/  Leonard 
McNally  wrote  various  ballads  and  romances  of  great  merit." 

The  music  of  this  song,  which  was  long  popularly  ascribed  to  the  Prince  of  Wales, 
afterward  George  IV.,  is  the  composition  of  Mr.  Hook,  father  of  Theodore  Hook.  The 
tune  was  in  vogue  when  Handel  was  in  London,  and  many  have  observed  the  similarity 
between  it  and  the  first  passage  of  «  The  Heavens  are  Telling."  The  song  was  a  favorite 
with  George  III. 


1-    On    Richmond     Hill    there    lives    a      lass,    More  bright  than    May  -  day 

zeph-yrs      gay     that      fan     the     air,     And    wan  -  ton    thro'      the 

K   How  hap- py       will     the      shep  -  herd  be,      Who    calls    this    nymph  his 


morn, 
grove, 
own  ; 


Whose 
O 

Oh  ! 


THE  LASS  OF  RICHMOND  HILL. 


247 


charms  all    oth  -  er      maids  sur  -  pass ;    A    rose  with  -  out    a    thorn.  This    lass   so   neat,  with 

whisper    to     my     charm-ing   fair,    "I    die    for     her     I      love."         This    lass    so   neat,  with 
may  her  choice  be     fixed    on     me,  Mine's  fixed  on     her    a    -  lone.          This    lass    so   neat,  with 


1 • -i 

EE3 

> — y~ 


•  /*  p 


smiles    so  sweet,  Has    won  my  right  good    will,....      I'd  crowns  re  -sign    to      call  thee  mine,  Sweet 


_     _  __  __  _ 

~^  _  T     ~  _  ^     ~| 


Lass    of  Richmond  Hill,  Sweet  Lass    of  Richmond  Hill,  Sweet  Lass  of     Richmond 


^  f  ad  lib. 

—     '  = ?— I— u< V  ==t 


Hill, 


I'd    crowns     re  -  sign     to         call      thee     mine,  Sweet    Lass     of       Richmond 


II 


248 


OUR   FAMILIAR    SONGS. 


g^sri  — »T-J-*-    —  *—  T— J—  —  fc—  r—  U—     — t 

^•S^J-f 1 -j  -•— -—    — 5 *: ' m ~  — t * * 

is  =;=*=£= 


THE   LASS  O'  GOWRIE. 

THE  first  stanza  of  the  present  form  of  this  old  Scottish  song,  which  was  a  great  favor- 
ite with  our  forefathers,  was  written  by  LADY  NAIRNE,  and  the  remaining  ones  seem  to  be 
altered  from  a  song  written  by  WILLIAM  EEID,  entitled  "  Kate  o'  Growrie."  The  air  is  an 
adaptation  from  a  favorite  old  melody,  "  Loch  Erroch  Side,"  for  which  Mr.  Reid's  words 
were  written. 


* 


1.  'Twas   on       a       sim  -  mer's  af    -   ter  -  noon,   A    wee        be  -  fore    the    sun    gaed  doun,  My 

2.  I     had      nae  thought  to     do       her  wrang,  But 'round    her  waist    my    arms      I  Hang,    Aiid 

3.  Saft   kiss  -   es       on      her  lips         I      laid,  The  blush     up    -  on      her  cheeks  soon  spread,  She 


x^T  •«• 

las  -  sie,       in          a         braw     new  goun,    Cam'    o'er  the     hills     to  Gow  -    rie.      The 

said, "  my      las   -    sie.        will       ye    gang       To       see   the    Carse     o'  Gow-    rie?      I'll 

whisper'd      mod  -   est    -    ly       and    said,    "  I'll     gang  wi'     you      to  Gow  -    rie."   The 

-—        f\ 


— ==1^=11^^= ==^q= 


•-» 


!  r    ^J       ±±= 


•^    > 


^•EBpE.       ^=£j3p=S± 

— !*».        }-  ^ *A  -*^ ^<— 

—•^ J_> > ^ 1 —^ 


rose  -  bud,  wash'd  in  summer's  show'r,  Bloom'd  fresh  with  -  in  the  sun  -  ny 
tak'  ye  to  my  fath  -er's  ha',  In  yon  green  field  be  -  side  the 
auld  folk  soon  gied  their  con  -sent,  Syne  for  Mess  John  they  quick  -ly 


bow'r.  But 
shaw,  And 
sent,  "VVha 


THE  LASS    O>    GOWRIE. 


249 


==$ * u 0=*=   ==P==:f=±^:^=:^=-J--Lq 


Kit  -  ty        was        the        fair    •    est    flow'r  That       ev  -  er    bloom'd  m  Gow    -      rie. 

mak'    ye         la    -     dy         o'        them    a'—    The        braw  -est   wife      in  Gow    -      rie. 

tied    them      to        theij     heart's    con  -  tent,  And        now  she's    La  -  dy  Gow    -      rie. 


HAD  I  A  HEART   FOR   FALSEHOOD   FRAMED. 

KICHARD  BRINSLEY  SHERIDAN,  dramatist,  orator,  wit,  and  poet,  is  author  of  the  soDg 
which  follows.  His  eventful  history  is  as  well  known  as  his  "  School  for  Scandal,"  and 
"Rivals."  He  was  born  in  Dublin,  Ireland,  in  September,  1751,  but  was  educated  at  Har- 
row, England,  and  always  remained  in  that  country.  His  first  wife  was  Miss  Linley,  a 
beautiful  singer,  and  he  fought  two  duels  on  her  account,  with  a  disappointed  rival.  Sheri- 
dan died  July  7,  1816. 

The  song  "  Had  I  a  Heart  for  Falsehood  framed"  is  contained  in  "  The  Duenna,"  a 
comic  opera,  which  had  a  great  run.  Moore  says  of  the  song :  "  These  verses,  notwith- 
standing the  stiffness  of  the  word  '  framed/  and  one  or  two  slight  blemishes,  are  not  un- 
worthy of  living  in  recollection  with  the  matchless  air  to  which  they  are  adapted."  The 
air  is  "  Grammachree,"  to  which  Moore  wrote  "  The  Harp  that  once  through  Tara's  Halls." 


2C~  tt/v 

_  —  ,  

-H  T  h  —  J 

Im-ffl.  j         't  *  •                   •          J 

«* 

» 

I                                      *        i  fj 

ly        r 

*       g  •              *      \ 

+J                0 
1.    Had      I                 a  heart      for       false 
2.    But  when           they  learn    that        you 

A 

hood  framed,  I           ne'e 
have  blessed  An    -    oth 

r       could   in         -   jure 
er  with           your 

~P~        •!~~J\  —  1    1    "1 

fe-fe—  *   -p    }_;  —  |  —  J  J3:  r* 

5?      5        5      5 
'      '       "                1 

SE     --i=y^ 

<^                <I> 

~\—  *  —  i  —  -  —  i  —  g~~  i~~  1 
._4  —  a  1  L_».  —  |  1 

—»•*—«•           —»••*•—*• 
•*••«•           •*••*• 

—  tat 

.      »                        J 

^^ 


--i 


-»— 


For  though         your  tongue      no  prom  -  ise      claim'd,  Your 

They'll        bid  as    -   pir    -    ing  pas    -  sion       rest,    And 


4=f=-=^=: 

3E=3EfEj 


OUR   FAMILIAR    SONGS. 


charms  would  make     me  true ; 

act          a       broth  -  er's  part. 


Then, 
Then, 


i 


friends          in     all       the         aged        you'll  meet,         And    lov    -    ers        in 


the       young. 


THE  YOUNG   MAY   MOON. 

THIS  is  a  song  of  MOORE'S,  and  the  old  Irish  air  to  which  it  is  sung  is  entitled  "  The 
Dandy,  oh!" 




* 

hj  2  2  

ifcz^r5—  h 

*        *      *  m    * 

~              m 

t     \ 

^&EEE±=  p  —  r 

1.  The  young  May  m 
2.  Now  all        the  wt 

*— 

son     is 
•rid      is 

i 

•x=*  •  0  0—0-  -j  ft  1—  i  i^—  -1  —  (-j  —  >  1 

beam-  ing,  love,    The      glow-worm's  lamp  is    gleam  -  ing,  love,    How 
sleep-  ing,  love,    But  the  Sage,    his  star-watch  keep  -ing,  love,    And 

*  i  K  1  1  £  1  K-T-T  £  -J  H^—  1 

~  j—   n  1          -^  9  «f—                            —  m  at  at— 

-ft           -f  f 

te 

1 
^ 

>- 

~0  J—  *g=igJ 
*•         *•       f         f 

^  '4— 

0.  0.  — 

8__.  . 

-*       -!•  —  p 

L,  u—  f 

'        -*—  1 

-*_!  4  V-     

d_  —  ^.  — 

1_  *  — 

*  ^— 

i  J 

IM,      1  C 

>f   .\ 

-r     ^ 

B.aJ     J/CM 

>.\. 

S51 

f~fl  9  »  a  — 

ad  lib. 
-t=P^-ZI 

iTS 

m    -*! 

£ 

=3] 

a  tempo. 

^  -£T 

3  —  £- 

-4— 

-$--$- 

-U=J=^- 

•?- 

~>      - 

-«- 

s=?-* 

-: 

-r  L 

i         J 

-*  — 

"9      •—_  ^ 

sweet     to    rove  Thro'      Mor  -  na's  grove,  When  the  drow  -  sy  world   is      dream  -ing,  love  I    Then  a  - 
I,    whose  star,  More     glo  -  rious  far,       Is  the     eye  from  that  casement  peep  -ing,  love!    Then  a  - 


V               p               i    I     ;"        ^        m-pz 

/W      •                         )•           -.1 

y  f  9  *  g  9  

0                                            B>      0 
m         1*               1         I/' 

«                                  "  -  *             m—m             * 

' 

C32     '             *         "            *     1                  *       *           * 

jj              *J              [ 

rT                                          t^          (X 

-    wake  !  the  heav'ns  look    bright,    my  dear,     'Tis 
-    wake  !  till      rise       of       sun,       my  dear,     The 

nev-er  too  late  for  de  - 
Sa-ge's  glass    we'll 

light,    my  dear  ;     And  the 
shun,     my  dear  ;      Or,  in 

y         !             N         i             S                       N     'j             S 

!                  ^1                  S 

_i            f^     Jl            K        1 

/LT  —  i  —  _  -i  —         —  i  —  :  —  9—  —  !  —  d  —  —  i  — 

j  ^  0  -__ 

_j  j^J  j  —  3 

•^  •*•      •+••*•      •+•      -f      -f   •*•      -•• 

-*             -*•     *"               • 

Jt  1  —  8  1      J 

^-r*==*=*  —  QEiEE=  —  1—  *= 

.9. 

<z  tempo. 


best     of   all  ways      To      lengthen  our  days       Is    to  steal  a  few  hours  from  the   night,     my  dear, 
watching  the  flight      Of     bod  -  ies    of  light      He  might  happen  to  take  thee  for       one,      my  dear. 

l\ /T* 

^3 


i 


=q=xz 


LOVE'S   RITORNELLA. 

A  Eitornella  is  a  symphony  before,  between,  or  following  a  melody.  "  Love's  Ritor- 
nella"  was  written  by  JAMES  EOBINSON  PLANCHE,  the  well-known  English  author  and  musi- 
cal critic,  who  was  born  in  London,  February  27,  1796.  He  prepared  for  the  stage  two 
hundred  pieces,  original  or  translated,  and  published  various  works,  one  of  the  latest  of 
which  is  a  professional  autobiography.  He  died  in  London,  May  29,  1880.  A  London 
friend  says  of  him :  "  Late  in  life,  when  he  had  hoped  to  repose  on  his  laurels,  his  daughter 
was  left  a  widow,  and  other  misfortunes  threw  his  children's  children  largely  on  his  hands. 
But  he  bravely  accepted  the  position,  and  without  a  murmur ;  and  possibly  to  this  very 
fact  the  world  may  owe  the  two  latest  and  ripest  productions  of  his  green  old  age." 


252 


OUR  FAMILIAR  SONGS. 


THOMAS  COOKE,  invariably  spoken  of  by  his  contemporaries  as  Tom  Cooke,  the  com- 
poser of  the  music,  was  born  in  Dublin,  Ireland,  in  1781.  He  had  an  exceedingly  versatile 
musical  genius,  and  had  mastered  almost  every  known  instrument  before  he  became 
singer,  musical  director,  leader,  and  composer  at  Drury  Lane  Theatre,  London,  which  post 
he  held  for  years.  He  had  neither  a  powerful  nor  a  very  sweet  voice ;  but  judicious  man- 
agement of  it  made  him  a  favorite  singer,  and  in  social  life,  his  pleasant  ways  and  ready 
wit  won  him  many  friends.  He  died  in  1848. 

"  Love's  Ritomella"  became  very  popular  by  being  sung  in  New  York  by  James  W. 
Wallaok,  in  a  play  called  "The  Brigand." 


linf-  3 

*        1  '  1    f  "              "  "*'  " 

-  i 

1.  "Gen    -     tie        Zi 
8.  "Charm-  ing        Zi 
3.  "Sim    •     pie        Zi 

i*-a—  *-  -i  —  -j- 

-    tel   -       la,                     whith   -    er            a 
-    tel   -       la,                       why    should'st  thou 
-    tel   -       la,              be  -    ware!       oh!        be 

—  »  —                               —  *f  —     —  ™"^  — 

way? 
care? 
-     ware  I 

1                             ™* 

9>~fr     I  —  1" 

w              ~0* 
\ 

0  0  _j  J  

1 

f\'Z  1       ^ 

• 

—  ^—                                 H 

^*  -JJ-                             7 

?  0  —  -?— 

4=d  -5  —  j 

—  0  

0  

I  1  S  K  — 

it*-        fc 

0         •—  _^^  \  —  •       =£  T- 

J=n  7 

ffis  3  •  — 

\j         j            *  1     \j 

I    * 

Lore's       Ri    -     tor     - 
Night         is          not 
List         ye          no 

nel    -     la,                          list,        while       I 
dark    -     er             than       thy          ra    -    ven 
dit     -    ty,                        grant         ye         no 

tr                                          y 

play  !" 
hair, 
pray'r  ! 

f-*  -\—  —  ~.  

1 

—  •  •  '  -—j  9  
-0 

^=7  J  0____ 

•9-           •*• 

4--j  =  

'1—  -       —  *  — 

J  j_  — 
—0-             -^                        ^           _^  ^  _X 

i-ib 

—  r—  s  H 

W  J    T  •~a^ 

"  No  !       I       have 
And    those    bright 
To       your     light 

^           *    *  *       *       * 

lin        -    ger'dtoo            long       on        the 
eyes             if     the            Bri    -  gand  should 
foot       -    steps  let  .             ter    -    ror        add 

_J_  L._ 
road, 

sec, 
wings 

TT                      "*" 

—  1  , 

5-  . 

2  I  m 

-•      ,        "/,     , 



-*•  * 

Night       is        ad 
Thou      art       the 
'Tis      Mas   -    sa 

vane    -  ing,            The       Bri   -  gand's     a 
rob    -   ber,             The       cap  -   tive        is 
ro    -    ni               Him    -  self    who       now 

broad  ; 
he; 
sings— 

IS  ^ 

3*  *      'S 

-_• 

—  J-             -                     <4  '  •                   

L  o  !' 


ni  roj;\EL  LA. 


253 


s  ••    -  ^ 

0 

—  iT*  —  1  *  — 

....      _,*• 

'•'—0 

n 

$D        ^       * 

1  *' 

*• 

•if" 

T  ^      1      ' 

* 

-  |E 



9  

9  ^ 

Lone    -  ly 

Zi 

-    tel    - 

la 

hath       too 

much 

to 

ft 

:ar; 

Gten    •    tie           Zi 

-    tel    - 

la 

ban 

-     ish 

thy 

fear; 

Gen    -    tie            Zi 

-    tel    - 

la 

ban 

•     ish 

thy 

fear; 

&==  =+=^=q 

'  *f                               s 

?                      i 

(ff)  L-  •  «  

^ifc=F  ?— 

—  I  .*       _J  j.    " 
1 

-t=*^ 

-        |—  |^ 

5  — 

c— 

1 

1  f  

R 

V  ft 

P  

p 

*  •> 

t 

—s  H 

OS  —  H  

9  

—  f— 

—  —  ^  — 

-3  H 

^  )/            _j 

/            f 

.j                  !J 

II 

»J             * 

v                 \r 

Love's 

Ri    - 

tor 

-    nel    -     la 

she       may 

not 

hear." 

Love's 

Ri    - 

tor 

-    nel    -      la 

tar     -    ry 

and 

hear.'' 

Love's 

Ri    - 

tor 

-    nel    -      la 

tar     -     ry 

and 

hear." 

DOWN  THE  BURN. 

THIS  song  first  appeared  in  Eamsay's  "Tea-Table  Miscellany."  The  two  original 
stanzas  were  written  by  EGBERT  CRAWFTJED,  who  was  a  cadet  of  the  house  of  Drumsay,  in 
Renfrewshire,  Scotland.  He  was  born  in  1695,  but  spent  most  of  his  time  in  France,  and 
was  drowned  when  returning  from  there  in  1732-'3.  He  was  supposed  to  have  been  a 
friend  of  William  Hamilton,  author  of  "  The  Braes  of  Yarrow,"  as  it  was  through  his  influ- 
ence that  Crawfurd's  poems  found  entrance  to  Ramsay's  collection,  and  a  song  of  Craw- 
furd's  is  addressed  to  Mrs.  Hamilton.  The  stanza  given  below  was  added  by  Burns,  who 
says  that  neighborhood  tradition  gave  the  composition  of  the  air  to  DAVID  MAIGH,  keeper 
of  the  blood-hounds  to  the  Laird  of  Riddell,  in  Roxburghshire. 

As  down  the  burn  they  took  their  way, 

And  through  the  flowery  dale, 
His  cheek  to  hers  he  aft  did  lay, 

And  love  was  aye  the  tale. 
With,  "  Mary,  when  shall  we  return, 

Sic  pleasure  to  renew  ? " 
Quoth  Mary,  "  Love,  I  like  the  burn, 

And  aye  will  follow  you." 


r II    FAMILIAR    SOXKS. 


1.  When       trees    did         bud,      and        fields    were  green, 

2.  Now,        Da  -   vy          did      each          lad       sur  -  pass 

3.  Her       cheeks  were         ro    -    sy  red       and  white, 


And    broom  bloom'd  fair        to 
That    dwelt      on        this      burn 
Her      een     were       bon   -    ny 


fe 


J^r-M^-e 


3 


3S 


m 


~,  ^>.          -~ 

f^    a  m  \        ,^-—      f  • 

•J£J    ;7'i 


love  laugh'd      in         her  e'e. 

meet     to         be  a  bride, 

lips     like      drop  -   ping  dew. 


Blithe 


4bHf-H>-f- 


Da    -    vy's  blinks    her      heart      did  move        To    sp3ak       her  mind     thus        free :—       "  Gang 


ir 


T 


DOWN   THE  BURN. 


(ny=£  —  >   j^f  '  J  •  *n*~ 

-v  —  P  br  •  f  '  g  r  ^  —  ^~5^  —  f^-5  ^  f 

down  the  burn,    Da  -  vy  love,        down  the  burn,     Da  -  vy  love,       Down  the  burn,    Da-  vy  love,  and 

f} 

y                              \         n. 

X        "1               *1          N   "1       P      1       p 

*1P*1          P1P1P        *1N1          N   *1       hi      •!       IS 

fm             \ 

J                 JJ               J                   P                 ill 

EC             n             J           0             * 

•             •»          m        .    m              J              J          J 

3         i         ^     £        2         v         5:55:         ^         $      $        $ 

fe).  ji   ^  i  f  i  r  "i 

;  i   T.  i   fs  i    p_^_  j  i   i>   i-j'  i   (•  1-^ 

^"^  —                    b1  1*1  — 

*  j  :  i  1  L_                   _T_ 

JL-+—  f  —  r  '  g  r  —  P 

*                                 *.0ff\s                      ^ff 

fc  J     h  —  P  —  £-f  —  *  —  a'    jj-  —  1,   .  P    '  —  J-^V*-J  —  u  —  "-^ 

I      will      fol  -  low  thee.            Down  the  burn,    Da    -    vy    love,  down   the  burn,     Da  -  vy  love, 

rail. 

r\ 

p-^^ 

m~^  ^  —  S1  —  if~J  ^^ 

—  X  —  35  ^  1  •£  —    •£  —       ^~™^  — 

tJ           $          1:  $                                          *    ^                           *  '    -^-J- 

.                    r**-B   i                r*^s  i 

&  r    i  —  r^H  —  r- 

—  S  S  ^  *  S  S  —  •*    J 

i  j  —                  -p-                    -f- 

down  the  burn,    Da-  vy  love,  Gang  down  the    burn,    Da-  vy     love,  And       I     will    fol  -  low  thee." 

Jf       **»                ^»           ^*^3                         "*          ^      «i         PH         N«         PH         ^«N          l\* 

^j—  ^  ^  —  *"•  3  J  

j  —  *\  —  i*  —  *\~f  —  si  —  F  —  si  —  r  —  -i   ft  H   d  —  ^  —  i 

3j  —  f  3  '  —  p  '  P  •  —  J-^—  :  ^    ^    H 

WHEN  THE  KYE  COMES  HAME. 

THE  precise  date  of  the  birth  of  JAMES  HOGG,  author  of  the  following  song,  is  not 
kaown.  He  believed  that  he  was  born  January  25,  1772,  but  the  baptismal  register  of 
lifctrick,  his  native  parish,  records  his  baptism  as  occurring  December  9,  1770.  At  six 
years  old,  he  was  bound  out  as  cow-boy,  and  was  paid  for  his  first  year's  service  in  "  one 
ewe  lamb,  and  a  pair  of  shoes."  He  had  but  six  months'  schooling,  and  when  eighteen 
years  old,  taught  himself  to  read.  For  practice  in  writing,  he  copied  the  Italian  alphabet 
upon  a  paper  spread  on  his  knees,  his  ink-bottle  being  hung  at  his  button-hole;  for  he  was 
on  the  hill-side  watching  his  sheep.  When  at  last  he  ventured  to  write  out  the  verses  that 
had  formed  themselves  in  his  mind,  he  flung  off  his  coat  and  vest  for  the  effort,  and  could 
put  down  but  few  lines  at  a  sitting.  He  died  November  21,  1835.  In  1860,  a  monument 
was  raised  to  his  memory,  on  the  margin  of  St.  Mary's  Lake,  in  Ettrick  Forest,  where  his 


250 


OUIt    FAMILIAR    SONGS. 


early  days  were  passed.  It  consists  of  a  statue  that  represents  the  poet  sitting  on  a 
gnarled  oak  root,  in  deep  contemplation.  The  figure  is  on  a  lofty  pedestal,  which  bears 
appropriate  inscriptions,— among  them,  this  from  one  of  his  own  poems : 

Flow,  my  Ettrick  !  it  was  thee 

Into  life  that  first  did  drop  me ; 
Thee  I'll  sing,  and  when  I  dee, 

Thou  wilt  lend  a  sod  to  hap  me. 
Passing  swains  will  say,  and  weep, 

"  Here  our  Shepherd  lies  asleep." 

To  his  pastoral  song,  which  was  first  published  in  his  novel  entitled  "The  Three 
Perils  of  Man,"  Hogg  gave  the  name  "  When  the  kye  comes  hame,"  and  he  says :  "  I  choose 
rather  to  violate  a  rule  in  grammar,  in  the  title  and  chorus,  than  a  Scottish  phrase  so  com- 
mon that  when  it  is  altered  into  the  proper  way,  every  shepherd  and  shepherd's  sweet- 
heart account  it  nonsense.  I  was  once  singing  at  a  wedding  in  great  glee, l  When  the  kye 
come  hame,'  when  a  tailor,  scratching  his  head,  said  it  was  a  '  terrible  affectit  way  that.' 
I  stood  corrected,  and  have  never  sung  it  so  again." 

The  air  is  an  old  one,  with  a  very  Scotchy-sounding  name  of  "  Shame  fa'  the  gear  and 
the  blathrie  o't." 


tell      ye    o*      a        se  -  cret  that    courtiers  din-na   ken :    What       is      the  great-est  bliss   that   the 


r  H  ^  J 


CHORUS. 


bni  —  f  •  *  r  —  r  —  j~ 

ii  —  ^—  l 

'-*... 

b     K 

,         J 

tongue    o'  man  can  name?    Tis     to 

\\ 

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oo    a  bon-  nie  las-  sie  wh( 

;n  the 

j        *        *          ^       \  - 
kye  comes  hame.When  the 

j."f^ 

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t  •    j 
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L|  —  |t_ji  3 

WHEN  THE  KTE  COMES  NAME. 


kye    comes      bame,  when   the     kye    comes   hame,  'Tween  the   gloam  -  in'  and  the      mirk,~When  the 


m 


j  -  3  j 


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kve       comes      hame. 


&T~j  ' 

» 

;      ;      . 

;      t      ••- 

a        u 

&^  • 

d    •         '" 

dim. 


^3  d  h- 

PV- 

c^ 

r^=H 

_j.          .j.     j.  .^.          j 

=      i    —                 5 

Come,  all  ye  jolly  shepherds, 

That  whistle  through  the  glen  ! 
I'll  tell  ye  o'  a  secret 

That  courtiers  dinna  ken  : 
What  is  the  greatest  bliss 

That  the  tongue  o'  man  can  name? 
'Tis  to  woo  a  bonnie  lassie 

When  the  kye  comes  hame! 

'Tis  not  beneath  the  burgonet, 

Nor  yet  beneath  the  crown  ; 
'Tis  not  on  couch  o'  velvet, 

Nor  yet  in  bed  o'  down  : 
'Tis  beneath  the  spreading  birk, 

In  the  glen  without  the  name, 
Wi'  a  bonnie,  bonnie  lassie, 

When  the  kye  comes  hame. 

There  the  blackbird  bigs  his  nest 

For  the  mate  he  lo'es  to  see, 
And  on  the  tap  most  bough 

Oh,  a  happy  bird  is  he ! 
There  he  pours  his  melting  ditty, 

And  love  is  a'  the  theme ; 
And  he'll  woo  his  bonnie  lassie, 

When  the  kye  comes  hame. 

When  the  blewart  bears  a  pearl, 
And  the  daisy  turns  a  pea, 

And  the  bonnie  lucken  gowan 
Has  fauldit  up  his  ee, 


Then  the  laverock,  frae  the  blue  lift, 
Draps  down  and  thinks  nae  shame 

To  woo  his  bonnie  lassie, 
When  the  kye  comes  hame. 

See  yonder  pawky  shepherd, 

That  lingers  on  the  hill; 
His  yowes  are  in  the  fauld, 

And  his  lambs  are  lying  still; 
Yet  he  downa  gang  to  bed, 

For  his  heart  is  in  a  flame, 
To  meet  his  bonnie  lassie, 

When  the  kye  comes  hame. 

When  the  little  wee  bit  heart 

Rises  high  in  the  breast, 
And  the  little  wee  bit  starn 

Rises  red  in  the  east, 
Oh,  there's  a  joy  sae  dear 

That  the  heart  can  hardly  frame! 
Wi'  a  bonnie,  bonnie  lassie, 

When  the  kye  comes  hame. 

Then,  since  all  nature  joins 

In  this  love  without  alloy, 
Oh,  wha  wad  prove  a  traitor 

To  Nature's  dearest  joy ! 
Oh  wha  wad  choose  a  crown, 

Wi'  its  perils  an'  its  fame, 
And  miss  his  bonnie  lassie, 

When  the  kye  comes  hame? 


(17) 


858 


OUK   FAMILIAR    SONGS. 


WHEN  STARS  ARE  IN  THE  QUIET  SKIES. 

EDWARD  BULWER,  LORD  LTTTON,  who  wrote  these  dainty  Hues,  was  an  historian  and  a 
poet,  although  preeminent  as  a  novelist ;  being  author  of  about  twenty  romances.  He 
wrote  a  few  plays,  among  which  is  the  "Lady  of  Lyons,"  one  of  the  favorites  of  the  stage. 
He  was  born  in  May,  1805,  and  died  in  London,  January  18,  1873. 


m 


thee; 


Bend     on        me  then  thy    ten-  der       eyes. 

!      t*   h   r    r* 


As     stars     look    on 


the 


r  h  r 


m 


2C  —       35  — 

i 

|  —  ;  a|  a|  

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i 

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t~=  1 

— 

i 

'     •             V                9 

i        » 

*-•  W                                W 

9 

<r        -. 

>  •       1 

A^               m 
sea!            For  thoughts,  like  waves  that  glide    by       night,               Are     still  -    est    when    they 

^.    ^     ^     ^    ^     ^     Jr-  J           .     ^..    ^     ^..    ^. 

fcy-*      ~     P 

-4 

>-=  •  V  

•  9  0  — 

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L  .  —  ^ 

>  1 

t—  m 

1  &—           —  L,  y  \j  , 

1  P  1  ^  1  (_ 
¥  ¥  V—1  H- 

v—\ 

^ 


shine ;       Mine  earth-ly      love      lies    hush'd    in  light 


Be  -  neath      the  heav'n      of 


fi 


thine ;  Mine  carth-ly      love    lies  hush'd   in 

!       f*  I 


light 


Be  -  neath    the  heav'n    of 


thine. 


m 


When  stars  are  in  the  quiet  skies, 

Then  most  I  pine  for  the'e; 
Bend  on  me  then  thy  tender  eyes, 

As  stars  look  on  the  sea ! 
For  thoughts,  like  waves  that  glide  by  night, 

Are  stillest  when  they  shine  ; 
Mine  earthly  love  lies  hushed  in  light 

Beneath  the  heaven  of  thine. 

There  is  an  hour  when  angels  keep 

Familiar  watch  on  men, 
When  coarser  souls  are  wrapped  in  sleep, 

Sweet  spirit,  meet  me  then. 


v 


There  is  an  hour  when  holy  dreams 
Through  slumber,  fairest,  glide, 

And  in  that  mystic  hour  it  seems 
Thou  shouldst  be  by  my  side. 

The  thoughts  of  thee  too  sacred  are 

For  daylight's  common  beam ; 
I  can  but  know  thee  as  my  star, 

My  angel,  and  my  dream .' 
When  stars  are  in  the  quiet  skies, 

Then  most  I  pine  for  thee; 
Bend  on  me  then  thy  tender  eyes, 

As  stars  look  on  the  sea. 


KITTY   NEIL. 

KITTY    NEIL. 

THE  words  of  "  Kitty  Neil"  were  written  by  JOHN  FRANCIS  WALLER,  an  Irish  lawyer, 
author,  and  poet,  who  was  born  in  Limerick,  1810.  He  is  highly  educated,  has  written 
much,  and  for  many  years  edited  the  Dublin  University  Magazine,  to  which  he  con- 
tributed largely  under  the  nom  deplume  of  "Jonathan  Freke  Slingsby."  He  is  still  a  bar- 
rister in  Dublin. 

The  music  of  the  song  is  a  favorite  Irish  melody,  entitled  "  Huish  the  Cat  from  under 
the  Table." 


-Jt- 


l^EjE^ 


:3=f= ?- 
-0 — * — *— 


— is — — — : — 


=H^=fc£=te::£ 
=r=h3-— *=j- 


"Ah,  sweet  Kit  -  ty    Neil,      rise      up    from    your  wheel,  Your  neat    lit  -  tie      foot     will  be 


'W^^'- 

r-ff— o — ?    J  - 
z-Mr         i  -0 


-^ 
'—{— 


j* • +-  —I p aj —^ 

—9    j.     s— ^       «. 5= 


.    -U_Ii 0 0 0 r~0 0 0 

t  •  ft _    Ti  f* I        ™~ __j -J~  — - 

•  *mfrtr     y      i : «J 

ff~ft  I   J    '        ~j         .  .  i     T^, J3IZZI3IZ 


-- *>T~  ~ nS — 

:-fce=i=::- 

~t±?zz        zz«; 


gg 


wea  -  ry  from    spinning ;  Come,  trip  down    with    me        to  the    syc    -   a  -  more  tree,    Half  the 


par  -ish    is     there,  and  the     dance     is        be   -  gin  -  ning ;  The        sun   is    gone  down,   but  the 

& 
-T 


^T*-tt—  *  ' 
"       It           W  ?  * 

J 
?— 

,     J  .                       J  . 

J 

'      "1. 

J 

• 

:5^=?E 


*  •  * 


full     bar  -  vest  -  moon    Shines  sweet-ly    and    cool       on  the  dew-  whit  -  en'd      val  -  ley,   While 


260 


OUB  FAMILIAR  SONGS. 


E 


all  the    air   rings  with  the  soft,  loving  things,  Each  little  bird  sings       in  the  green  shaded  al  -  ley." 


With   a   blush   and  a  smile,  Kitty  rose  up,  the 

while 
Her  eye  in  the  glass,  as  she  bound  her  hair, 

glancing : 

Tis  hard  to  refuse  when  a  young  lover  sues, 
So  she   couldn't  but  choose   to  go   off  to  the 

dancing. 

And  now  on  the  green  the  glad  groups  are  seen, 
Each   gay-hearted    lad   with    the   lass   of   his 

choosing; 
And  Pat,  without  fail,    leads    out   sweet   Kitty 

Neil  — 

Somehow,  when   he  asked,  she  ne'er  thought 
of  refusing. 

Now,  Felix  Magee  puts  his  pipes  to  his  knee, 
And,  with  flourish  so  free,  sets  each  couple  in 

motion ; 
With  a  cheer  and  a  bound,  the  lads  patter  the 

ground  — 

The  maids  move  around  just  like  swans  on  the 
ocean. 


Cheeks   bright   as   the  rose  —  feet  light  as  the 

doe's  — 

Now  coyly  retiring,  now  boldly  advancing; 
Search  the  world  all  around,  from  the  sky  to  the 

ground, 

No  such  sight  can  be  found  as  an  Irish  lass 
dancing! 

Sweet  Kate  !  who  could  view  your  bright  eyes  of 

deep  blue, 
Beaming  humidly  through  their  dark  lashes  so 

mildly, 
Your  fair-turned   arm,   heaving   breast,  rounded 

form, 
Nor  feel  his  heart  warm,  and  his  pulses  throb 

wildly  ? 

Poor  Pat  feels  his  heart,  as  he  gazes,  depart, 
Subdued  by  the   smart  of    such   painful   yet 

sweet  love ; 

The  sight  leaves  his  eye,  as  he  cries  with  a  sigh, 
"  Dance  light,  for  my  heart  it  lies  under  your 
feet,  love." 


FLY    NOT   YET. 

WHEN  THOMAS  MOORE  was  in  this  country,  a  company  assembled  in  a  Philadelphia 
parlor  to  meet  him,  and  when  there  was  a  suggestion  of  "  departing-time,"  Moore  said 
that  if  the  guests  would  stay  he  would  write  them  a  song  and  sing  it  on  the  spot.    «  Fly 
Not  Yet"  was  the  result,  sung  to  an  old  melody  called  "  Planxty  Kelly." 


2J     'th8  Justf^ch«ur7henP^sure,like    the  mid-night  flow'r  That  scorns  the  eye  of 
2.  Fly    not  yet;     the  fount  that  play'd  In  times    of  old    thro'  Ammon's  shade/Tho'  i   -  cy  cold    by 


FLY  NOT   YET. 


261 


vul  -  gar  light,    Begins      to  bloom  for  sons     of  night,  And  maids  who  love  the  moon, 
day       it    ran,    Yet  still,  like  souls    of  mirth,    be -gan,  To  burn  when  night  was  near. 


•*- 
Twas 
And 


but      to  bless  these  hours    of  shade,  That  beau  -ty  and     the  moon  were  made,  'Tis  then  their  soft  at  - 
thus  should  woman's  hearts  and  looks,    At  noon    be  cold       as    win  -ter  brooks,  Nor  kin  -  die  till     the 


trac  -  tions  glowing,    Set      the  tides     and  gob   -  lets   flow  -  ing.    Oh,      stay ! 
night,  re  -  turn- ing,  Brings  their  ge  -  nial  hour      for   burn -ing.    Oh,      stay! 


Oh, 
Oh, 


stay  ! 
stay! 


£-*tt-f  —  f  —  <•  —  •- 

-0  ^  —  -p... 

—  »  —  •  — 

H  P—  i  -H 

f^_S_        _U  C  L_ 

-r  b  ^ 

[^  ,  ^_ 

Joy       so       sel  -    dom  weaves  a     chain,    Like    this       to  -  night     that    oh  !       'tis     pain      To 
When    did      morn  -  ing    ev    -    er    break,    And    find      such    beam  -  ing    eyes        a  -  wake,    As 

#        1           fs        |            s      ,            s 

ijt  tj~?»  *  *  ^~JT  *  •  J"   1  ?    "f      ~~*       =j~~s'  —  ^  "  —  r^^ 

-t—^-0  1  —  -^ 
9               j 

—  fe±  EET 

i  E  ' 

^  |H  J 

262 


OUR   FAMILIAR    SONGS. 


*=s=g    ==^_f_Eg^ 

t-t=±^ — *— —  =53 


break  its    links     so    soon. 
those  that  spar-  kle  here? 


Oh!        stay,         Oh!  stay;          Joy       so     sel  -  dom 

Oh !        stay,         Oh !  stay ;       When      did  morn  -  ing 

:                                                               w 

N 


EE^E^E^EFpf^i 

i       |     .  , |^ S 


weaves  a   chain  Like  this      to-night,  that  oh !       'tis  pain      To  break      its  links    so    soon, 
ev  -   er  break,  And  find   such  beam-ing  eyes        a -wake    As  those    that  spar -kle    here? 


TOO  LATE   I   STAYED. 

WILLIAM  ROBERT  SPENCER,  author  of  the  following  song,  was  born  in  1770.  He  was 
the  grandson  of  two  dukes,  the  cherished  light  of  an  elegant  circle,  and  the  warm  friend  of 
Thomas  Moore,  who  addressed  an  enthusiastic  poem  to  him  from  Niagara  Falls.  As  a  test 
of  memory,  for  a  wager,  Spencer  once  learned  the  whole  contents  of  a  newspaper  by 
rote,  and  repeated  them  without  the  omission  of  a  single  word.  He  held  the  office  of 
Commissioner  of  Stamps;  but  at  last  died  in  great  poverty  in  Paris,  in  1834.  The  old 
Irish'  melody  which  forms  the  basis  of  his  favorite  song,  was  entitled  "  The  Slender  Coat." 


1.  Too      late  I 

2.  And     who         to 


staid—     for    - 
so     -     ber 


give      the  crime;      Un 
ii ii -as  -  ure-ment      Time's 


heed  -   ed 
hap  -    py 


flew     the 
swift -ness 


[i 


TOO   LATE  I  STAYED. 


i 


on     -       ly       treads      on  flow'rs 

plu    -     mage       of         their          wings 


-count,     re      -      marks        The        eb     -      bing         of  his  glass; 

-give       the  crime;       Un  -  heed     -     ed         flew         the         hours, 


When 
For 


all  its         sands        are  diamond    sparks      That       daz 

noise    -    less         falls         the  foot  of      time        That         on 


zle     as        they 
ly  treads      on 


flowers. 


'TIS   MIDNIGHT   HOUR. 

THIS,  one  of  the  most  familiar  of  songs,  is  an  orphan  and  a  waif.    I  have  been  unable 
to  gain  any  clue  to  author  or  composer.    The  melody  is  probably  an  old  English  one. 


1.  'Tis       mid  -  night     hour, 

2.  'Tis       mid-  night     hour, 


the      moon  shines  bright, 
from    flow'r    to       flow'r 


The    dew  -  drops     blaze 
The    way  -  ward      zeph 


be- 
yr 


264 


OUK    FAMILIAR    SOM.;*. 


-neath     her 

floats        a 


ray  ; 
long. 


The     twink  -  ling       stars 
Or          lin  -   gers  in 


their         trem  -   bling    light  Like 

the  shad    -    ed     bow'r  To 


i 


H 


beau  -  ty's        eves  dis  -    play, 

hear       the       nfght    -     bird's     song. 


Then    sleep         no        more, 
Then    sleep         no        more, 


tho5 
tho' 


.* 


round     thy       heart  Some       ten    -     der      dream  may         i    -     dly      play,  For 

round     thy        heart  Some        ten    -     der      dream  may         i    -     dly      play,  For 


ritard. 


ad  lib. 


iE^-J*- 


J'  J   t  •    (I 


mid-night  song,    with       ma  -    gic      art,     Shall  chase      that    dream       a  -    way. 
mid-night  song,    with        ma   -  gic      art,     Shall  chase      that    dream       a  -    way. 


ROSLIN    CASTLE. 

THB  following  sweet  old  Scottish  song  was  a  great  favorite  in  this  country  in  earlj 
days.  The  words  were  written  by  RICHARD  HEWIT,  a  native  of  Cumberland,  England.  He 
was  employed  as  an  amanuensis  by  Dr.  Thomas  Blacklock,  the  blind  poet,  who  was  the 
first  to  encourage  Bobert  Burns,  and  later  he  became  secretary  to  Lord  Wilton.  He  died 
in  1764. 


EOS  LIN    CA8TLE. 


265 


James  Oswald,  who  made  a  volume  entitled  "A  Collection  of  Scots  Tunes/'  and  gave 
among  them  many  of  his  own,  was  long  supposed  to  have  composed  this  one,  although  in 
the  collection  it  lacked  the  asterisk  by  which  he  designated  his  own.  It  has  since  been 
discovered  in  a  book  which  was  old  in  Oswald's  day,  under  the  title  "  The  House  of  Glams." 
Koslin  Castle  stands  on  the  banks  of  the  river  Esk,  a  few  miles  from  Edinburgh. 


1.  'Twas      in  the    sea    -     son  of         the    year,       When     all      things  gay         and 

2.  A  -    wake,      sweet  Muse !     the        breath  -  ing  spring      With    rapt    -   ure  warms,        a- 


S 


m 


4T  EJiuerN 


sweet      appear,     That      Co  -   lin,  with       the     morn  -  ing   ray,       A   -    rose    and  sung  his 
-wake    and  sing ;      A  -    wake    and   join      the        vo   -    cal  throng,  Who      hail     the  morn-ing 


^ 


i 


% 


I 


* 


m 


li 


ru  -    ral      lay :     Of     Nan  -  nie's  charms  the        shep-herd  sung,     The      hills     and  dales     with 
with       a     song !    To     Nan  -   nie  raise      the        cheer-  f ul     lay ;       Oh !       bid      her  haste     and 


mM 


I 


Nan    -  .nie 
come         a 


rung;     While         Ros   -    lin      cas     -     tie 
way:        In  sweet  -   est  smiles       her 


heard       the     swain,     And 
self  a   -   (lorn.      And 


266 


OUR  FAMILIAR  SONGS. 


cheer -ful   strain, 
to      the  morn. 


O  hark,  my  love !  on  every  spray, 
Each  feathered  warbler  tunes  his  lay; 
Tis  beauty  fires  the  ravished  throng, 
And  love  inspires  the  melting  song. 
Then  let  my  raptured  notes  arise, 
For  beauty  darts  from  Nannie's  eyes, 
And  love  my  rising  bosom  warms, 
And  fills  my  soul  with  sweet  alarms. 


O  come,  my  love  !  thy  Colin's  lay 

With  rapture  calls  ;   O  come  away ! 

Come,  while  the  Muse  this  wreath  shall  twine 

Around  that  modest  brow  of  thine. 

O  !  hither  haste,  and  with  thee  bring 

That  beauty,  blooming  like  the  spring, 

Those  graces  that  divinely  shine, 

And  charm  this  ravished  heart  of  mine ! 


COUNTY    GUY. 

"  COUNTY  GUY"  is  a  little  song  by  SIR  WALTER  SCOTT,  set  to  an  air  of  MOZART'S. 


rO  —  T»  —  N  —  i  —  I  iv 

—  d  t-H55 

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1.    O       Coun    -    ty 
2.  The       vil    -    lage 

i                        \ 

Guy,       the       hour       is       nigh,       The     sun         has       left          the 
maid      steals  through  the     shade,      Her     shep  -  herd's     suit           to 

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-Her';. 


lark    his 
star      of 


lay 
love, 


who     trill'd    all      day,      Sits  hush'd,    his     part  -   ner 
all       stars      a  -   bove,    Xow  reigns     o'er   earth     and 


COUNTY   GUY. 


267 


nigh ;         Breeze,  bird,  and  flow'r,  con  -  fess   the  hour,  But  where    is    Coun  -  ty 
sky;  And    high    and  low      the        influence  know,  But  where    is    Coun  -  ty 

-£- 


Guy? 
Guy? 


THE  MEETING  OF  THE  WATERS. 

THE  following  song  was  suggested  to  its  author,  THOMAS  MOORE,  by  a  visit,  in  the  sum- 
mer of  1807,  to  the  romantic  spot  in  the  county  Wicklow,  where  the  waters  of  the  Avon 
and  the  Avoca  are  blended. 

The  air,  which  is  called  "  The  Old  Head  of  Dennis,"  was  an  especial  favorite  with 
Moore. 


1.  There  is    not 

2.  Yet    it    was 


in    the        wide    world      a  val    -    ley       so        sweet, 

not  that         Na   -  ture      had        shed       o'er     the        scene, 


As  that 
Her 


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vale         in 
pu    -     rest 


whose      bo    -    som 
of       crys   -     tal 


the 
and 


bright       wa    -  ters       meet;  Ohl  the 

bright  -    est         of       green;  'Twas 

S 


last      rays    of     feel  -  ing  and        life  must  de  -  part, 
not      her    soft   ma  -  gic     of      streamlet    or      hill, 


Ere  the  bloom    of  that  valley       shall 
Oh  1        no —      it  was  something  more 


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OUR  FAMILIAB  SONQ& 


fade  from  my  heart,       Ere  the    bloom  of    that    val  -ley     shall       fade  from  my    heart, 
ex-qui-site    still,         Oh!          no-    it    was    something  more       ex-qui-site     still. 


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E        =t 


There  is  not  in  the    wide    world  a  valley  so 

sweet, 
As  that  vale  in  whose  bosom  the  bright  waters 

meet; 
Oh!    the   last    rays  of   feeling    and    life    must 

depart, 
Ere  the  bloom  of  that  valley  shall  fade  from  my 

heart. 

Yet  it  was  not  that  Nature  had  shed  o'er  the 

scene, 

Her  purest  of  crystal  and  brightest  of  green  ; 
'Twas  not  her  soft  magic  of  streamlet  or  hill, 
Oh!  no  —  it  was  something  more  exquisite  still. 


'Twas   that  friends,  the  beloved  of  my  bosom, 

were  near, 
Who  made  every  dear  scene  of  enchantment  more 

dear, 
And  who  felt  how  the   best  charms  of  nature 

improve, 
When  we  see  them  reflected  from  looks  that  we  love. 

Sweet  vale  of  Avoca!  how  calm  could  I  rest 

In  thy  bosom  of  shade,  with  the  friends  I  love  bes^ 

Where  the  storms  that  we  feel  in  this  cold  world 

should  cease, 
And  our  hearts,  like  thy  waters,  be  mingled  in 

peace. 


FOR  THE  SAKE  O'   SOMEBODY. 

ROBERT  BURNS  wrote  these  verses,  all  but  a  line  or  two,  which  belonged  to  a  very 
indifferent  old  Jacobite  song.  The  air  to  which  they  are  now  sung  is  called  "The 
Highland  Watch's  Farewell." 


l£isE 

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l.My    heart       is      sair,       I       daur  -  na      tell,     My  heart       is       sair      for    some    -    bo-<ly; 
2.  Ye    pow'rs  that    smile     on      vir  -  tuous   love,      OI  sweet   -ly     smile      on     some    -    bo-dy; 

(.  ^       ,  1  1                      i  1  —  i  1                       '  1 

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I  could  wake    a  win  -  ter  night,  For     the  sake     o'  some  -  bo-dv.    Oh      hon,  for  some  -  bo  -dv  ! 
Frae    ilka  dan  -ger  keep   him  free,    And  send  me  safe  my  some  -  bo-dy.    Oh      hon,  for  some  -bo-dy! 


FOR    THE   SAKE   0"   SOMEBODY. 


269 


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Oh       hey,  for  some  -  bo  -dy  ! 
Oh       hey,  for  some  -  bo  -dy  ! 

I  could  range  the  world  around, 
I      wad  do—  what  wad  I    not, 

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For    the  sake      o'  some  - 

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MAID    OF    ATHENS. 

LORD  BYRON  wrote  these  stanzas  while  in  Athens.  The  lady  who  inspired  them 
was  Theresa  Maori,  daughter  of  the  English  vice-consul,  celebrated  for  her  beauty.  She 
afterwards  married  an  Englishman  named  Black,  who  resided  in  her  native  city.  In  $i 
note  appended  to  the  poem,  Byron  says :  "  The  closing  line  of  each  stanza,  Zofy  /*oD, 
ads  a^aTTto,  is  a  Eomaic  expression  of  tenderness.  If  I  translate  it,  I  should  affront  the 
gentlemen,  as  it  may  seem  that  I  suppose  they  could  not;  and  if  I  do  not,  I  may  affront 
the  ladies.  For  fear  of  any  misconstruction  on  the  part  of  the  latter,  I  shall  do  so,  begging 
pardon  of  the  learned.  It  means,  l  My  life,  I  love  you !'  which  sounds  very  prettily  in  all 
languages,  and  is  as  much  in  fashion  in  Greece  at  this  day,  as  Juvenal  tells  us  the  two 
first  words  were  amongst  the  Eoman  ladies,  whose  erotic  expressions  were  all  Heilen- 
ized."  He  says  the  line  in  the  third  stanza  which  reads : 

"  By  all  the  token-flowers  that  tell," 

refers  to  a  custom  in  the  East  (where  ladies  cannot  write),  of  exchanging  sentiments  by 
means  of  flowers. 

Lord  Byron  was  born  in  London,  January  22,  1788,  and  died  at  Missolonghi,  Greece, 
April  19,  1824. 

The  music  for  the  "Maid  of  Athens"  was  composed  by  ISAAC  NATHAN,  who  was  born 
in  Canterbury,  England,  in  1792.  He  was  intended  for  the  Jewish  priesthood,  and  was 
carefully  educated,  but  turned  his  attention  to  music,  and  soon  became  a  favorite  composer 
of  both  secular  and  sacred  works. 


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1.  Maid    of    Ath  -ens, 
2.    By   those  tress  -  es, 

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Give,       oh,     give    me 
Woo'd              by     each 

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J  i_!  ! 

270 


OUK    FAMILIAE 


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—  *  —  2~<  -;.     .  \.  !  — 

since      that     has     left       my  breast, 
those     lids  whose    jet  -    ty  fringe, 

,"      •*—  ->       •*  i     **  ^ 

Keep     it        now    and    take    the     rest  ! 
Kiss    thy       soft  cheek's  blooming  tinge  ;     By 

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Hear    mv     vow       be    -  fore       I       go, 
those  wild    eyes,                 like    the      roe. 

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Hear.         hear, 
like                           the 

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hear         my        vow         be    -       fore         T          go: 
By  those      wild,       eyes  like  the       roe, 


My 
My 


life, 
life, 


life, 
life, 


IT 41 S— 

love  you,    I         love   you,  My  life,  my 

love  you,    I         love  you,  My  life,  my 

— , S 


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life 
life 


love    you. 
love    you. 


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Hear       my    vow 
By         those  eyes, 


g^^=^=  ^a=g=^eiit~T~  ^=EB 

^     l^g^-"  rtr*^/— fr      ^—^—^ — ^  .     ^=g==H 

be   -  fore  I     go :       My       life,    my    life,       I       love  you. 

like          the  roe,       My       life,    my    life,       I       love  you. 


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MAID    OF  ATHENS. 


271 


-0—fi—0— 

^J      i^— L__ 


3.  By      that  lip,     I  long        to      taste; 

4.  Maid     of    Ath-ens,          I          am     gone; 


£-*-  -- 

By        that  zone      en   -   cir  -    cl'd  waist ;  By 
Think  of  me,   sweet,  when    a  -  lone. 


all         ine       to    -  ken  -  flow'rsthat    tell    What  words    can       nev  -   er    speak   so      well;     By 
Thouga     I        fly        to       Is    -   tarn  -  bol,  Ath  -   ens       hold  my    heart  and    soul  ; 


:q— J=:Q 


^  m 


love's     al  -    ter    -  nate     joy       and  woe, 
Can        I     cease       to        love ....      thee  ? 


joy- 
no, 


. ..      and       woe, 
no,      no  1 


By 


TZ1*ZT=       —»*— 1 

fa==l         

nif__ —     — 0,- — 


V=^0        pr 


love's       al    -       ter  -    nate 
Can  I  cease       to 


joy  and       woe,       My 

love        thee?      no!         My 


m i       ~ i 


T~  EE 

i^Li-l 


Ol'l!    FAMILIAR    SONGS. 

~=* -* 1  *    i     ••* 


love's        si  -  ter    -      nate     joy  and  woe.     My        life,    my    life,  love  you. 

Can  I    cease  to       love        thee?no!     My        life,    my    life,       I        love  you. 


Maid  of  Athens,  ere  we  part, 
Give,  oh  give  me  back  my  heart! 
Or,  since  that  has  left  my  breast, 
Keep  it  now,  and  take  the  rest  ? 
Hear  my  vow  before  I  go, 
Zairj  /jidtj  fftit;  dfa7ta>. 

By  those  tresses,  unconfined, 
Wooed  by  each  ^Egean  wind ; 
By  those  lids  whose  jetty  fringe 
Kiss  thy  soft  cheek's  blooming  tinge; 
By  those  wild  eyes,  like  the  roe, 
Zanj  fjLou  ff 


By  that  lip  I  long  to  taste  ; 
By  that  zone-encircled  waist; 
By  all  the  token-flowers  that  tell 
What  words  can  never  speak  so  well  ; 
By  love's  alternate  joy  and  woe, 
IJLOO  ffdi; 


Maid  of  Athens  !  I  am  gone  : 
Think  of  me,  sweet  !  when  alone, 
Though  I  fly  to  Istambol, 
Athens  holds  my  heart  and  soul  ; 
Can  I  cease  to  love  thee  ?     No  ! 
Zanj  fj.ou  ffdf 


O    NANNIE,  WILT  THOU  GANG  WT   ME? 

THOMAS  PERCY,  author  of  "  Nannie,  wilt  Thou  Gang  wi'  Me,"  was  born  at  Bridgenorth, 
Shropshire,  England,  April  13,  1728.  He  became  ch;.plain-in-ordinary  to  the  king,  and 
afterward  Bishop  of  Dromore,  in  the  county  Down,  !i-eland.  His  greatest  literary  work 
was  the  "Keliques  of  English  Poetry."  He  gathered  estrays  with  infinite  pains,  and 
touched  up  all  those  which  had  hopelessly  missing  lines  and  other  blemishes.  He  became 
totally  blind,  and  died  at  Dromore,  September  30,  1811. 

THOMAS  CARTER,  who  composed  the  air  of  "  Nannie,  wilt  Thou  Gang  wi;  Me,"  was 
born  in  Ireland  in  1768.  He  received  his  musical  education  in  Italy,  and  was  a  singer, 
pianist,  and  composer.  Once,  being  terribly  cramped  for  money,  he  set  Handel's  signature 
upon  a  manuscript  of  his  own,  and  sold  it  for  a  large  sum.  The  piece  still  passes  as  a  genu- 
ine production  of  the  great  musician's.  Carter  died  in  1804. 


Nan  -  nie,     wilt        thou       gang     wi>      me,         Nor      sigh 


to    leave         the 


O  NANNIE,     WILT    THOU  GANG    WP    ME? 


273 


flaun-tingtown?      Can       si   -lent  glens      have    charms  for  thee,         The  low  -  ly      cot,       And 

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~^=r=\-    =^ 


TO — 1 1 1 . • =—•  _      • J. 

^^^^^f=^HEf=3=f^^^^:=^-* 

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1> 


(IS) 


274 


OUR   FAMILIAR   SONGS. 


O   Nannie,  wilt  thou  gang  wi'  me, 

Nor  sigh  to  leave  the  flaunting  town  ? 
Can  silent  glens  have  charms  for  thee, 

The  lowly  cot  and  russet  gown? 
No  longer  drest  in  silken  sheen, 

No  longer  decked  with  jewels  rare, 
Say,  canst  thou  quit  each  courtly  scene, 

Where  thou  wert  fairest  of  the  fair? 

O  Nannie,  when  thou'rt  far  awa,' 

Wilt  thou  not  cast  a  look  behind? 
Say,  canst  thou  face  ihe  flaky  snaw, 

Nor  shrink  before  the  winter  wind? 
Oh,  can  that  soft  and  gentle  mien 

Severest  hardships  learn  to  bear, 
Nor,  sad,  regret  each  courtly  scene 

Where  thou  were  fairest  of  the  fair  ? 


O  Nannie,  canst  thou  love  so  true, 

Through  perils  keen  wi'  me  to  go  ? 
Or  when  thy  swain  mishap  shall  rue, 

To  share  with  him  the  pang  of  woe  ? 
Say,  should  disease  or  pain  befall, 

Wilt  thou  assume  the  nurse's  care, 
Nor,  wistful,  those  gay  scenes  recall, 

Where  thou  were  fairest  of  the  fair? 

And  when  at  last  thy  love  shall  die, 

Wilt  thou  receive  his  parting  breath? 
Wilt  thou  repress  each  struggling  sigh, 

And  cheer  with  smiles  the  bed  of  death? 
And  wilt  thou  o'er  his  breathless  clay 

Strew  flowers,  and  drop  the  tender  tear; 
Nor  then  regret  those  scenes  so  gay 

Where  thou  wert  fairest  of  the  fair? 


NEAR  THE  LAKE. 

GEORGE  P.  MORKIS  was  the  author  of  the  words  of  the  following  song.  The  music  was 
arranged  by  CHARLES  EDWARD  HORN,  from  a  Southern  negro  melody  which  was  sung  to 
stanzas  beginning — 

"  Way  down  in  the  raccoon  hollow," 

The  melody  was  arranged  first  as  a  glee  for  four  voices,  to  be  sung  by  negro  minstrels  to 
the  inspiring  words,  "  As  I  was  gwine  down  Shin-bone  alley,"  and  it  took  a  genius  like 
Horn's  to  think  of  subduing  it  to  a  sweet  and  plaintive  song. 


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1. 
2. 
3. 

J3EB 

Near        the    lake    where  drooped   the     wil  -  low. 
Dwelt        a     maid       be-  loved       and    cher-ished 
Rock,      and    tree,      and     flow   •    ing      wa-  ter, 
While       to      my       fond  words      she      list  -  ened, 
Min    -    gled   were      our    hearts       for  -   ev  -    er, 
To         her  grave    these   tears        are      giv  -  en, 

»-!                -*  —  «H  —  i—  -£  —  £^- 

i                              V 
Long        time         a 
By           high       and 
Long        time         a 
Mur    -     mur    -    ing 
Long        time         a 
Ev      -      er           to 

if    r   c   i 

go! 
low; 
go! 
low; 
go! 
flow  I 

^  . 

—  b—  t 

i      r  :  \ 

H  E 

1 


Where       the    rock  threw     back        the      bil  -  low, 

But       with     au  -  tumn's     leaf        she     per-  ished, 

Bird,       and    bee,  and       bios   -   som,  taught  her 

Ten    -    der  -    ly  her       dove  -    eyes    glis-  tened, 

Can           I     now  for    -    get        her?    nev  -  erl 

She's       the     star  I       missed     from   hea  -  ven, 


Bright 
Long 
Love's 
Long 
No, 
Long 


-  er 
time 
spell 
time 
lost 
time 


than 

a 

to 

a 
one, 

a 


snow! 

go  ! 
kno-v, 

go' 
no! 

go  I 


t 


& 


BLUE-EYED    MARY. 

BLUE-EYED   MARY. 


275 


So  far  as  the  words  are  concerned,  this  very  well-known  song  is  "without  friends  or 
home."    The  music  was  an  old  German  convivial  song  for  four  voices. 


1.  "Come,      tell        me,       blue  -   eyed    stran 

2.  Come      here,      I'll        buy       thy      flow 


ger,      Say,         whith  -    er          dost      thou 
ers,     And          ease       thy         hap  -   less 


m 


g=^ 


-U       '-" 


roam?- 
lot;.. 


m 


O'er       this     wide    world   a       ran 
Still       wet     with     ver  -  nal     show 


ger,    Hast    thou       no  friends,   no 
ers,      I'll      buy       for-  get   -    me- 


£3 


1    X 


home?  "  They     call'd   me,    blue-  eyed       Ma 

-not.  "  Kind      sir,    then    take  these       po 


ry,    "When     friends  and      for-  tune 
sies, — They're    fad  -  ing,    like    my 


smiled ;       But,     ah  I     how     for-  tunes      va    -    ry  I —     I      now       am   Sor  -  row's  child." 
youth;       But      nev   -   er,      like  these     ros    -    es,      Shall   with  -    er    Ma  -   ry's    truth  1" 


276 


OUR   FAMILIAR   SONGS. 


"  Kind  sir,  then  take  these  posies, 
They're  fading  like  my  youth  ; 
But  never,  like  these  roses, 
Shall  wither  Mary's  truth. 

u  Born  thus  to  weep  my  fortune,   ' 

Though  poor,  I'll  virtuous  prove; 
I  early  learned  this  caution, 
That  pity  is  not  love. 


Look  up,  thou  poor  forsaken, 

I'll  give  thee  house  and 
And  if  I'm  not  mistaken, 
Thou'lt  never  wish  to  roam. 

"  Once  more  I'm  happy  Mary, 

Once  more  has  fortune  smiled; 
Who  ne'er  from  virtue  vary, 
May  yet  be  fortune's  child." 


THE   ROSE  THAT  ALL  ARE  PRAISING. 

"  THE  Bose  that  all  are  Praising  "  was  written  by  THOMAS  HAYNES  BAYLY,  and  set  to 
music  by  EDWARD  J.  LODER,  a  well-known  English  musician  and  composer.  His  father 
was  a  celebrated  musical  leader  and  tenor  singer  in  London.  The  son  was  born  in  1817, 
and  died  in  1865. 


JLt/j  L*L_ 

—1  £  i  £- 

i               N 

-r  P^  — 

S~| 

1  S  —  | 
.   :               ~m~\ 

ys   i    -s  9  —  i  —  •  —  $-.  —  4  —  jt— 

\          u 
1.  The   rose      that     all         are    prais  -    ing,        Is 
2.  The  gem        a      king    might  cov    -      et         Is 
3.  Gay  birds      in       cag  -     es      pin    -     ing,      Are 

£y-fi     •  0  0  »  —        r                   f  — 

not      the       rose    for 
not     the       gem    for 
not     the      birds    for 

r*  -\  1 

D 

II 
n 

-4  f-  5-1 
ie  ;  Too 

ie  '  The 

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te 

"1  N  1  K—  i 

4  1  1  r_ 

H  1  jfc 

|  -H  •**      _S- 

.—---_---—- 

^~l 

ma    -    ny     eyes      are 
dark  -  ness    who  would 
plumes  so    bright  -  ly 

,.-    *  *       f         f 

ty.  •  0  •  —  •  — 

1           ,/ 
gaz       -    ing,      Up 
move           it,       Save 
shin       -    ing,  Would 

r""1  —  •  —  w~\ 

S-    S      it  S  = 

•    on       the     cost  -    ly 
that       the   world    may 
fain      fly       off     from 

i  —  *  *  *  *  —  i 

;  1  1  ;  

9    .            -      * 

tree  •  B 

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ut 
ut 
ut 

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see  •  B 

thee  •  B 

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tx  '  »_  —  1 

f  •  1  lU— 

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--{-^^     ~',j  

*  — 

te 

"• 

a 

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M  

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1  -m  

r==j~~ 

S— 

=*'=^ 

3                 E3 

^—  ^*~  ^H 

§L-S  S—S  S-J 

there's   a      rose       in 
I've         a      gem      that 
I've        a     bird      that 

••••»••••••• 

f)«L 

3i  —  -s  —  >  —  >  —  »  —  *  —  »~*  " 

yon   -   der    glen,    That    shuns     the       gaze    of 
shuns     dis  -  play,   And      next     my      heart  worn 
gai    -    ly     sings,  Though  free        to       rove,  she 

,_£_  *.  r     r     f     r-—*-     r 

oth   -    er    men;  For 
ev'   -    ry    day,    So 
folds    her  wings,  For 

•*-•••••*-       •*- 

11^  \>   »     —i*        i       ,.• 

-  — 

_|  <_  1 

••       —  i 

-;  

-*  — 

—  I  1  —  J 

:g==r 


me  its  bios  -  som  rais 
dear  -  ly  do  I  love 
me  her  flight  re  -  sign 


ing,     Oh!      that's    the       rose    for        me;. 

it;     Oh!      that's    the       gem    for         me;. 

Ing,     Oh!      that's    the        bird    for        me;. 


Oh! 
Oh! 
Ohf 


THE  ROSE  THAT  ALL  ARE  PRAISING. 

27? 

I^P'1         ~t     *      *  - 

»  •       it     •'*  i 

•  i  —  i    *-  •*..-  «  • 

*  •            i 

—41 

that's   the     rose      for 
that's   the     gem      for 
that's   the     bird      for 

~f-g  M* 

me  Oh  I 

nr~  ^*~ 

that's     the      rose        for 
that's     the      rose       for 
that's     the      bird       for 

me  Oh  1 

me  ......           Oh  I 

1  ;  1  1  p 

Z  b              1 

?= 

i       r    ir 

lx                       i     - 
,j 

1  H 

'TWERE  VAIN  TO  TELL  THEE  ALL  I  FEEL. 

THE  words  of  this  song  were  written  by  J.  AUGTJSTTJS  WADE,  an  Englishman,  who  was 
born  in  1800,  and  died  in  London  in  1875.  He  enjoyed  in  his  day  considerable  reputation 
as  a  song- writer  and  composer,  but  in  his  last  years  he  was  extremely  poor,  and  went 
begging  among  the  music-publishers. 

These  verses  were  set  by  F.  STOCKHATJSEN,  to  a  favorite  Swiss  air,  which  has  probably 
kept  them  in  memory.  Stockhausen  has  composed  many  melodies. 


A  *t 

.     h 

1 

h 

is 

Ejfcza     N      h. 

\ 

B 

1        * 

J  —  - 

a 

\     ' 

S 

P 

N     "" 

XL   ft  '*     N     ft 

j 

L 

1         1 

i 

J 

N 

J 

! 

(m       4    J  —  J  —  • 

J  : 

-0 

!•  *— 

-J  1 

1 

• 

i— 

*      N     N    j  '    n     * 

—  £  —  £  — 

1.  'Twerevain  to      tell       thee   all      I 
2.  Thou'stoft-en    called     my  voice   a 

-*-  •      -*--*- 

'    r^  —  I 

feel,.... 
bird's,... 

Or    say    for 
Whose  mu  -  sic, 

thee  I'd   die,    or    say   for 
like    a    spell,  whose  mu-sic, 

f-       K       N     - 

r 

r 

| 

j    j 

•      f 

^ 

•      U 

L    • 

^ 

IE       * 

^  ft  4  r  —  P  —  P 

p 

-  —  P— 

-P—  

" 

s 



J  2— 

1 

i  =*—  v  f  f 

L_J  

^  —  t^_J 

1 

|       '      J 

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j      y 

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k 

i 

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f 

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ifh        ^       r      r 

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f    1 

«  fla      "T 

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!  " 

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< 

—Js  •      « 

r 

• 

3 

F    • 

*    1 

*  ***      J 

y^ 

j 

j     J  i  ^  *  -               P~C 

thee  I'd   die  ;    I    find  that  words    will  but   con 
like     a  spell,  Could  change  to  rapt  •  ure   e'en  the 

TJV;D  *  •  *  —  i—  1  •  —  i 

-    ceal 
words 

What  my 
Of    our 

f  r- 

soul    wou 
slow      an 

t^*    *. 
Id  wish  to 
I   sad  fare- 

* 

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—  E 

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^  •            • 

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3E 

3 


3 


-w~         w                                                                              *  ~^r~         ^ 

sigh.    Ah,well-a-day!  the  sweet-est  mel  -  b  -  dy  Could  nev- er,  nev -er  say  one  half  my  love  for 

-well.  But,  ah,well-a-day !  the  sweetest  mel  -  o  -  dy  Could  nev-  er,  nev  -  er  say  one  half  my  love  for 

-«-_«--«                                                                                                                               0  J>         ^C_    ->•- 


thee,  for  thee,  Then  let   me        si-   lent-ly     re    -  veal       What  my        soul  would  wish  to  see. 


i 


278 


OUR  FAMILIAR  SONGS. 

THE  CARRIER   PIGEON. 


THE  author  of  the  following  song,  JAMES  GATES  PERCIVAL,  an  American  poet,  was  bora 
at  Berlin,  Connecticut,  September  15,  1795.  He  was  educated  at  Yale  College,  and  studied 
medicine  in  Philadelphia.  He  left  its  practice  for  literary  pursuits,  but  in  later  life  he  was 
assistant-surgeon  in  the  army,  and  Professor  of  Chemistry  at  the  West  Point  Military 
Academy.  He  was  afterward  an  army-surgeon  in  Boston.  He  was  sent  with  a  scientific 
exploring  party  to  Wisconsin,  where  he  died,  May  2,  1857. 

The  music  of  ''The  Carrier  Pigeon"  was  adapted  from  an  Irish  air,  by  P.  K.  MORAN, 
one  of  the  earliest  music-teachers  in  New  York  city.  He  composed  many  airs  of  similar 
character. 


1.  Come      hi-therthou   beau  -  ti -ful         ro 

2.  Here  is  bread  of    the    whit  -  est  and      sweet 

3.  I  have  fasten'd     it       un  -  der  thy        pin 


ver,  Thou  wand'rer     of      earth  and      of 

est,  And    there    is        a        sip        of     red 

-  ion,  With    a       blue    rib  -  bon  round  thy    soft 


^___ «__  _^^_  __•• 

t, —    I  ~«» «« —  ~i — «<  i     a 

=«=g=        =5=-«=I=jt=tl    =S= 


r-5 

?•   -*• 


n 

fc       fc 

i       J         .s 

TJ 

S          m       \ 

J^_    K            •                                      » 

»       *~ 

9                           0             rf    • 

t 

i            i          1 

rcB      *~^    * 

i               *             i               i 

__1  ,, 

i  L«  1  — 

air, 
wine: 
neck; 

>  k  ^  ^  ^  

Wlio       bear  -  est       the        sighs       of     a 
Tho'  thy  wing        is       the       light    -    est  and 
So,           go       from     me,      beau   -     ti  -  ful 

,^_^_                      

lov       -                  -   ver,     and 
fleet       -       -   est,  'Twill    be 
rain           •         ion,    While  the 

^^_                   —  •-» 

fly    7    J^  1  9— 

-<  —  i  —  ' 

-r=;-     -F^—  ' 

r~i  —  i~ 

**    ^ 

1  "i 

r^ 

i  *- 

41       "  ^~ 

—  I?  b 

—  i  —  i  — 

«  *  ^  *  

y  k  »  —  ?  —  ?  —  ^  —  ^~ 

ES&. 

S         ^           S         *»         ,K    • 

v-tt      b  ^  ^          t*         -        *    :    *"k                 

bring  -est    him     news     of     his     fair; 
fleet-  er    when  nerv'd    by     the    vine; 
pure   eth  -  er       shows  not       a    speck  ; 

1          f                     .r                 v                *    ..          —m        —0               9-       - 

Bend        hi  -  ther     thy       light  wav  -  ing 
I  have  writ  -  ten     on       rose  -  scent  -  ed 
Like  a  cloud     in      the        dim     dis  -  tanc^ 

—  «  9-  1          !  «  !          —  j 

P    '^-^ 

J^* 

=^  : 

=  4—  -j  1  J—  ^--i 

—  f=  *—  —  9  1  

1  f  ::::     *             _       —  ' 

*  —  g  

1  —  

-9  *  1  *  

.  1>  

THE    CARRIER   PIGEON. 

N    ^ 


279 


pin  -  ion, 
pa  -  per, 
fleet  -  ing, 


And  show  me  the 
With  thy  wing  a 
Like  an  ar  -  row  he 


gloss  of  thy  neck; 
soft  bil  -  let  -  doux, 
hur  -riea  &  -  way; 


Oh, 
I  have 
And 


perch  on    my  hand,  dear  -est    min 

melt-ed    the   wax  in    love's  tap 

farth  -er    and  f arth-er       re  -  treat 


ion,  And  turn  up  thy  bright  eye  and  peck. 
er,  'Tis  the  col  -  or  of  true  hearts,  sky  blue, 
ing,  He  is  lost  in  the  clear  blue  of  day. 


THE  BLUE  JUNIATA. 

BOTH  words  and  music  of  the  following  song  were  written  by  MRS.  M.  D.  STJLLIYAN. 


tti^  —  f  —  r~f  r 

Cay  4  i  «  —  J  —  J  PN  -m—  AT- 

7^-^ 

^=?=+ 

EE^ 

^LL  =E_|  £  1  _J.  j  —  (2  1     «T 

1.  Wild    roved    an       In  -  dian     girl,       Bright 
2.  Gay      was     the    mount-ain    song   Of  bright 

Al  -    fa  -    ra   -   ta,              Where  sweep   the 
Al  -    fa   -    ra   -   ta,              Where  sweep   the 

(  v\^~^^  —  f                —  ^  ~  1  ^  — 

J  3~ 

—  =1  1  1  — 

I        \M/               *T                             fl               •                            fl                                                                 M                             *               M 

IZ3I         * 

4     «     0  __ 

e           i 

(     /jyV       g     J  J  «  

1*      * 

J         .__! 

*i   i   *       ^* 

C±3rT    1  S  —     •        «l  •  -               £ 

i^LJ  L^_      L_J_ 

\j$\i      h                             L    ^-^1              hi  1    -N 

J         '       1 
1  J  J  f    .1 

LJ_  j— 
^  —  M  

wa  -  ters      Of     the         blue       Ju  -  ni    -    a 
wa  -  ters      Of      the        blue       Ju  -  ni    -    a 

-    ta. 
-    ta. 

-1  ^—  ?  —  '^     '    i    r 
P    P 

Swift      as     an       an  -  te-  lope, 
Strong  and  true     my     ar-rows  are, 

f       j        jr     P-l^ 

(  TO      h       ^    T  1    ^    ,      1'    .,  1  .U 

*** 

2 

T~^  1    ~    _l       '  1        1       '  J 

________ 

—  Ty  

J           =3 

280 


OUR   FAMILIAR    SONGS. 


tt\t  r 


m 


:*=£ 


Thro'   the  for  -  est      go  -   ing, 
In     my  paint-ed     quiv  -  er, 


Loose      were  her      jet  -  ty  locks,  In       wa  -  vy      tress  -  es 
Swift      goes   my     light  ca  -  noe     A  -  down  the      rap  -  id 


-r— H * 


3- 


3 


flow  -  ing. 
riv  -  er. 


£ 


Bold  is  my  warrior  good, 

The  love  of  Alfarata, 
Proud  waves  his  snowy  plume, 

Along  the  Juniata. 
Soft  and  low  he  speaks  to  me, 
And  then  his  war-cry  sounding, 
Rings  his  voice  in  thunder  loud, 
From  height  to  height  resounding. 


So  sang  the  Indian  girl, 

Bright  Alfarata, 
Where  sweep  the  waters 

Of  the  blue  Juniata. 
Fleeting  years  have  borne  away 
The  voice  of  Alfarata, 
Still  sweeps  the  river  on, 

Blue  Juniata. 


WHAT  WILL  YOU  DO,  LOVE? 

BOTH  the  words  and  the  music  of  this  song  were  written  by  SAMUEL  LOVER,  for  his 
entertainment  called  "  Irish  Evenings." 


1.  "What  will  you    do,   love,  when  I     am     go    -  ing,  With  white  sail  flow -ing,  The  seas    be- 

2.  "What  would  you  do,  love,     if     dis-tant    tid  -  ings,  Thy  fond    con  -  fid  -  ings  Should  under- 

3.  "What  would  you  do,   love,  when  home  re  -turn  -  ing,  With  hopes  high  burning,  With  wealth  for 


WHAT    WILL    YOU  DO,   LOVE? 


281 


i 

s    \ 

Z3E  —  j—  -f-j- 

K-  -N-  1-  3 

to±_J  '     j     •  ?—?--£     I   r~  *     ii  '  *     "    1*        J—  --p-qi^jg 
TV*//.              "CT?^ 
-yond?  What  will  you    do,  love,  when  waves  di  -  vide       us,  And  friends  may  chide  us    for     be   -ing 
-mine?  And    I       a-   bid-    ing  'neath  sul  -try  skies,    Should  think  oth-er    eyes  were   as  bright    as 
you,        If   my  bark,\vhich  bound'd  o'er  foreign  foam,  Should  be    lost  near  home  —  Ah  I  what  would  you 

*J          *n"* 

0  *         *         -*— 

—  «  1  J  !  w  j  J  !       -             1             |               ' 

L~3r*  5^*  5  3rL^-*—5r--*  J. 
^    «^**__ 

—  1  N  1 

^•*J.   *-r      1              *- 

-&~  0  ^  

i  *-?  *  *-..*-  ^  r 

1                         P           * 
*—        ,— 

I 

Eq 

—  j-—  - 

^ 

-  -s 

_-.„ 

~z^~ 

—  *— 

-  0 

1^ 

-?- 

-»  — 

•f- 

'— * 

fond?""Tho'  waves  di  -  vide      us  and  friends  be     chid  -  ing,  In  faith    a  -  bid  -  ing,  I'll    still  be 

thine?"  "Oh,  name  it      not  I....    tho'  guilt    and  shame        Were   on  thy  name,  I'd  still  be 

do?"  "So  thou  wert  spar'd,    I'd  bless  the     mor-row,  In  want  and  sor  -  row,  that  left  me 


true,  And  I'll  pray  forthee  on  the  stormy  o-  cean,  In  deep  de  -  vo  -  tion — That's  what  I'll  do." 
true,  But  that  heart  of  thine  should  anoth-er  share  it,  I  could  not  bear  it — "What  would  I  do?" 
you !  And  I'd  welcome  thee  from  the  wasting  bil  -  low,This  heart  thy  pil  -  low — That's  what  I'd  do !" 


SHE  WORE  A  WREATH   OF   ROSES. 

THE  words  of  this  song  were  written  by  THOMAS  HAYNES  BAYLY,  and  the  music  was 
composed  by  JOSEPH  PHILIP  KNIGHT. 


282 


OUR    FA  MIL  I  AH    SOM1S. 


ciy*   N     s     s     M 

^T  /_4-   g- 

1     ..    _»  — 

Fr*  r  J*    /    ,    fr 

**            love  -   ly      face    was 
-pres  -  eion      of      her 

smil      -       ing       Be-  nea 
feat  -  ures  Was     more  thoi 

l^ 

1h    her    curls     of 
ight-ful    than      be  - 

__^_  p  — 

—  (  —  v— 

jet;                         Her 
fore;                      And 

—  I     3             1  —  1 

v          V-     -+    gy.     ^ 

Ip^-i— 

;- 

; 

-< 

3 

b  i  1  j.  i1 

9,         m>         r 

N  —  i  —  ! 

I  

^ 


f^ttg  •  ^J 

zf     •     E 

0            0 

|  J?  g^  =-:  p~] 

3 

N         -i             ST~ 

-TT-!  9        i 

ItJ  "!•     J 

foot  -  step     had       the 
stand  -  ing      by        her 

x  *Nt  tf  —  •!  —  •!  — 

light  -ness,             Her   voiee      the    joy  -  ous 
side    was     one   Who  strove,    and   not      in 

J               _                ^               •               M               ^               ^ 

-*•                            -tF  

tone,                       The 
vain,                         To 

P^.  3.  i  j- 

i?               ^ 

^ 
-    * 

1  J  J  0^ 

r«  r«  F- 

'i    i    i    i1 

n*  r  f  r- 

—  =  f-  f  =  

1  1  1  —  i 

__=)  c  F  =)  

Rail. 


a  tempo. 


to  -  kens 
soothe  her 


s      of  a    youth  -  ful   heart  Where  sor-  row  is         un-  known  ; 

,    leav   -   ing    that    dear  home    She  ne'er  might       view        a  -   gain  ; 


^mlJ  J  J"^' 


saw    her      but         a       mo-ment— Yet       me- thinks     I       see         her         now,     With      the 
saw    her      but         a       mo-ment— Yet       me- thinks     I        see        her         now,     With      the 


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wreath     of        sum    -    mer 
wreath     of         or    -     ange 

V                                     *  " 

flow  -   era            Up     - 
bios  -  soms           Up     - 

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on       her        snow   -    y 
on       her        snow   -   y 

brow, 
brow. 

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SHE  WORE  A   WREATH  OF  ROSES. 
Piu  lento  e  con  molto  espressione. 


283 


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And  once         a  -  gain       I        see  that  brow,  No       bri  -  dal  wreath    is     there,  The 


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once    lux  -   u 

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weeps       in     si  -   lent        sol    -     i-  tude,   And  there        is      no      one    near, 


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To 


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Rail. 


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press   her    hand     with  -   in      his     own,  And   wipe        a   -    way     the     tear; 


^  f  a  tempo.  cres. 


=5= 


see     her     brok  -    en  -  heart  -  ed!    Yet       me- thinks      I       see       her         now,       In        the 


284 


OUR  FAMILIAR  SONGS. 


=£ 


pride        of      youth       and  beau  •  ty, 


With  a     gar   -   land       on 


her      brow. 


I'LL  HANG  MY  HARP  ON  A  WILLOW  TREE. 

THERE  is  an  absurd  tradition  that  this  familiar  old  ballad  romance  was  written  by  a 
nobleman,  who  had  the  misfortune  to  lose  his  heart  for  Queen  (then  Princess)  Victoria,  and 
who  poured  forth  the  suicidal  song  when  she  received  the  diadem  on  her  brow. 

The  music  was  arranged  by  WELLINGTON  GUERNSEY,  who  is  the  author  of  some  charm- 
ing songs,  set  by  various  composers. 


2.  She  took  me  a  -  way  from  my   war  -  like   lord,      And    gave  me  a       silk    -  en   suit ; 

_^_ 

-*ff 


ir 

peace   -  ful  home  has    no    charms  for     me,       The       bat     -     tie     field     no    pain ; 
thought    no  more   of    my     mas  -  ter's  sword,  When  I  play'd  on  my    mas  -  ter's  lute ; 


The 
She 


=?=        EE«3E--3=- 

+^ — ••£^-=V'>  • 


]*~$7    J    «l°vf        wil1    soon  be      a  bride,    With  a   di  -    a  -  dem    on      her     brow; 
seem  d      to    think  me    a        boy  a  -  bove       Her      pa  -  ges    of     low      de  -  gree ; 


I'LL    HANG    MV  HARP   ON  A     WILLOW    TREE. 


285 


why   did  she   flat  •  ter   my     boy  -   ish    pride,    She's     go  -  ing    to    leave       me  now,  Oh ! 

had     I    but  lov'd  with  a       boy  -   ish     love,       It    would  have  been  bet  -  ter  for  me,  Oh! 

!E,^£! 


why  did  she    flat  -  ter  my    boy   -    ish    pride, 
had    I     but  lov'd  with  a      boy   -    ish     love, 


She's      go  -  ing    to       leave      me 
It    would  have  been  bet  -  ter   for 


now !  •  •  • 
me 


Then  I'll  hide  in  my  breast  every  selfish  care, 

I'll  flush  my  pale  cheek  with  wine, 
When  smiles  awake  the  bridal  pair, 

I'll  hasten  to  give  them  mine  ; 
I'll  laugh  and  I'll  sing,  though  my  heart  may  bleed, 

And  I'll  walk  in  the  festive  train, 
And  if  I  survive  it,  I'll  mount  my  steed, 

And  I'll  off  to  the  wars  again. 


But  one  golden  tress  of  her  hair  I'll  twine 

In  my  helmet's  sable  plume, 
And  then  on  the  field  of  Palestine, 

I'll  seek  an  early  doom  ; 
And  if  by  the  Saracen's  hand  I  fall, 

'Mid  the  noble  and  the  brave, 
A  tear  from  my  lady-love  is  all 

I  ask  for  the  warrior's  grave. 


THE  INDIAN'S   DEATH   SONG. 

THE  following  song  was  written  by  MBS.  JOHN  HUNTER,  wife  of  the  eminent  surgeon  and 
sister  of  Sir  Everard  Home.  She  was  born  in  Scotland,  in  1742.  She  wrote  several  songs 
which  Haydn  set  to  music,  and  her  verses  were  very  widely  known.  This  song  was  exceed- 
ingly popular  in  New  England  in  the  beginning  of  the  present  century.  The  author  says: 
"  The  idea  was  suggested  several  years  ago,  by  hearing  a  gentleman  who  had  resided  many 
years  ago  in  America,  among  the  tribe  called  '  Cherokees/  sing  a  wild  air  which  he  assured 
me  it  was  customary  for  those  people  to  chaunt  with  a  barbarous  jargon,  implying  con- 
tempt of  their  enemies,  in  the  moments  of  torture  and  death." 


03        h 

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J           /       ^ 

1 

_J^.  

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(Co    4-  • 

901 

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M  —  H 

—  r-l  :     *— 

^  —  i 

!  *  — 

The 
-f- 

sun        sets       at 
«         "^"      ~t 

ni, 

;ht,     and     the 

f          ?•       tf 

stars    sh 

un        tl 

ic     day,     But 

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—  B-HT- 

*~^  f 

- 

0  i 

r-  U 

^ 


-mains    when      the    light       fades       a   -     way.  Be     -     gin,       ye      tor  -  men  -  tors,     your 


F-         -f- '     -*- 


OUR  FAMILIAR  SONGS. 


threats     are    in      vam,     For  "the      son        of   Alk   -   no  -  mook  shall     nev   -    er    com  -  plain. 


m 


The  sun  sets  at  night,  and  the  stars  shun  the  day 
But  glory  remains  when  the  light  fades  away  ; 
Begin,  ye  tormenters,  your  threats  are  in  vain. 
For  the  son  of  Alknomook  shall  never  complain. 

Remember  the  arrows  he  shot  from  his  bow, 
Remember  your  chiefs  by  his  hatchet  laid  low; 
Why  so  slow  ?  do  you  wait  till  I  shrink  from  my  pain? 
No  !  the  son  of  Alknomook  shall  never  complain. 


Remember  the  wood  where  in  ambush  we  lay,[a\vay; 
And  the  scalps  which  we  bore  from  your  nation 
Now  the  flame  rises  fast,  you  exult  in  my  pain, 
But  the  son  of  Alknomook  shall  never  complain. 

I'll  go  to  the  land  where  my  father  is  gone. 
His  ghost  shall  rejoice  in  the  fame  of  his  son; 
Death  comes  like  a  friend  to  relieve  me  from  pain ; 
And  thy  son,O  Alknomook!  has  scorn'd  to  complain. 


O,   BOYS,   CARRY   ME  'LONG! 

THIS  is  one  of  the  "  Plantation  melodies "  of  STEPHEN  COLLINS  FOSTER. 
and  music  are  by  him.    It  was  produced  in  1851. 
Moderate. 


1.  Oh! 

2.  All 

3.  Fare    - 

4.  Fare    - 


car  -  ry   me 

o -  ber    de 

well    to    de 

well    to    de 


'long; 
land., 
bovs,. 
hil'ls,. 


Der's   no       more  trou-ble    for  me;... 

I've    wan  -  derM    ma-ny     a  day,.. 

Wid  hearts      so      hap  -  py   and  light, . 

De    mead-ows    cov -ered  wid  green,. 


I's 

To 


aruine  to  roam 
blow  de  horn 
sing  a  song 


In  a  hap-pv 
And  mindae 
De  whole  day 


home,  Where  all  de 
corn,  And  keep  de 
long,  And  dance  de 


nig  -  gas  am  free. . 
pos  -sum  a  -  way. 
fu  -  ba  at 


I've 


brin  -die    Boss,     And  de  old  grey  -boss,     All    beat-   en,     brok-en    and     lean 


worked  long  in 

No  use  for 

Faro      -  well    to 

Fare      -  well    to 


de 
me 
de 
de 


fields ; 
now,.. 
fields. 


I've  hand  -  led  man  -  y      a 

So,  dar    -  kies,  bu  -  ry  me 

Ob  cot  -    ton.  'bac  -co,   and 

Dat  al    -  ways  followed  me 


hoe ; 

low; 

all; 

round;-... 


I'll 
My 
I's 
Old 


OH,    BOYS,    CAREY  ME    'LONG! 
N     K 


287 


r-T 


turn     my     eye,  Be  -  fore  I  die,        And  see        de        gu  -  gar-cane  grow, 

horn       is      dry,  And      I  must  lie,     Wha  de  pos  -  sum    neb-ber  can  go.... 

guine     to      hoe,  In  a  bress  -  ed  row,   Wha  de  corn  growa  mel  -low  and  tall . . 

San  -  cho'll  wail.  And  droop  his  tail,    When  I         am        un  -der    de  ground. 


TT~f~f  -j — ?= 

7 — ^ 4 — ~~at '* * — ' 

— * *  —  £^ii=^ 


Car  -  ry      me    down       to  de     bu   -  ry   -  in'  groun',  Mas  -  sa, 

HS N___£ ^ 


2=^=4=4: 

— 9 * 


MASSA'S   IN  THE  COLD,   COLD   GROUND. 

THIS  also  is  one  of  Foster's  "  Plantation  Melodies,"  set  to  one  of  his  characteristically 
plaintive  melodies.     It  was  written  in  1852. 

Poco  lento.  By  special  permission  of  Messrs.  OLIVKB  DITSON  &  Co. 


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1.  Round    de  mead-ows  am      a 
2.  When    de    au-  tumn  leaves  are 
3.    Mas  -    sa  make  de   dark-eys 

ring 
fall 
love 

V                                           0 
-     ing,    De  dark-ey's     mourn  -    ful 
ing,           When  de        days         are 
him,           Cayse  he        was           so 

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song, 
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288 


OUB   FAMILIAR    SONGS. 


tQj^^-^r^-jr-;^^ 

r?  xi 

—  ^  N  r                           —  I  —                      x*  —  r 

—  f<—            ~r-               -^«— 

While      de  mock-ing  bird  am 
hard       to  hear  old  mas  -  sa 
Now,     dey  sad-  ly  weep   a  - 

P         K 

smg   -    ing,            Hap-  py      as     de    day     am      long, 
call   -    ing,           Cayse  he    was   so  weak   and      old. 
bove      him,          Mourning  cayse  he  leave  dem  be-  hind.              I 

->  J    J    J  T»  i  —  BS  r-i- 

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Where     de       i  -   vy     am     a      creep    -    ing 
Now       do     or-  ange  trees  am   bloom    -   Ing 
can-    not  work  be  -fore    to  -   mor    -    row, 

O'er        the  grass   -    y      mound, 
On           de     sand   -    y        shore, 
Cayse       de     tear  -  drop      flow,                   I 

/       J^       Jfr                       "     1                                                           I 

3E 

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L  ft  J  .   *  j  1  J  -^ 

Dare       old  mas  -  sa     am     a 
Now        de  sum-mer  days  am 
try         to  drive    a  -  way  my 

sleep    -    ing, 
com    -     ing, 
sor    -     row, 

Sleep-ing    in     de   cold,     cold  ground. 
Mas  -  &a    neb-  ber  calls        no     more. 
Pick-  in'    on     de    old        ban  -   jo. 

Jf  fotf  rj  1  1  \  

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i^-'f       f      f  '  *)       *      '  "      •      i      ,1  U  :       =*=* 

Down        in         de      corn    -    field,              Hear      dat     mourn  -  ful    sound  : 

/JQ7»   fl-    3-    E          3  —  «  1  E5  —  *  —  ]  K 

fr-L^-^=ltf=    *'-  i  i  i'*.iHH^ 

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AH         de   dark-eys   am      a 

weep  -   ing, 

1  1        | 

Mas-sa's     in      de   cold,  cold  ground. 

J3     i  i   i 

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^fe 

—  g|  —           —  J  ^  ^^-fl 

SONGS  OF  HOPELESS  LOVE, 


Ow  sweetest  songs  are  those  that  tell  of  saddest  thought. 

—  Percy  Byaahe  Shettej. 


Death  forerunneth  Love,  to  win 
Sweetest  eyes  were  ever  seen. 

—  Elizabeth  Barrett  Browning. 


Can  I  think  of  her  as  dead,  and  love  her  for  the  lore  she  bore  ? 
No— she  never  loved  me  truly,  love  is  love  for  ever  more. 

— Alfred  Tennyson. 


God  pity  them  both !  and  pity  us  all, 
Who  vainly  the  dreams  of  youth  recall. 

—  John  Greenleaf  Whitttor. 


SONGS  OF  HOPELESS  LOVE. 


AULD   ROBIN   GRAY. 

GRACE,  accomplishments,  exquisite  sensibility,  benevolence,  and  devotion,  all  belonged 
to  the  character  of  LADY  ANNE  LINDSAY,  authoress  of  "  Auld  Eobin  Gray."    She  was  born 
at  Balcarres,  Fifeshire,  Scotland,  November  27,  1750,  and  was  "the  daughter  of  a  hundred 
earls."    Her  father,  at  the  time  of  her  birth,  was  the  representative  of  this  long  line,  and 
his  eldest  daughter,  Anne,  received  careful  training  in  all  that  constituted  the  finished 
education  of  a  gentlewoman  of  her  day.     Of  course,  music  formed  a  large  part  of  her  cul- 
ture, and  she  very  early  wrote  rhymes  for  her  favorite  airs,  which  never  saw  the  light.    At 
the  age  of  forty-three,  she  married  Andrew  Barnard,  Esq.,  son  of  the  Bishop  of  Limerick, 
and  secretary  to  the  colony  of  the  Cape  of  Good  Hope.    She  accompanied  him  thither, 
where,  after  fifteen  years  of  most  happy  life,  her  husband  died.    Lady  Anne  established 
herself  with  a  sister,  in  a  house  in  Beverly  Square,  London,  where  she  died,  May  6th,  1825. 
When  Lady  Anne  was  twenty-one,  the  sister  with  whom  she  afterwards  lived,  married 
and  removed  to  London.     Lady  Anne  was  very  lonely,  and  to  amuse  herself  she  composed 
ballads.    Her  mother  had  in  the  house,  as  attendant,  an  old  woman,  who  sang  the  ancient 
melodies  with  fine  effect.   Among  them  was  one  called  "  The  Bridegroom  greets  when  the  sun 
gangs  down."     There  was  also  an  old  herdsman  on  her  father's  estate,  named  Eobin  Gray. 
In  a  letter  written  to  Sir  Walter  Scott,  in  which  she  acknowledges  her  authorship,  and  gives 
the  facts  we  have  just  recorded,  she  says :  "  I  called  to  my  little  sister,  now  Lady  Hard- 
wicke,  who  was  the  only  person  near  me,  '  I  have  been  writing  a  ballad,  my  dear ;  I  am 
oppressing  my  heroine  with  many  misfortunes ;  I  have  already  sent  her  Jamie  to  the  sea, 
and  broken  her  father's   arm — and  made  her  mother  fall  sick — and  given  her  auld 
Eobin  Gray  for    a  lover, — but  I  wish  to  load  her  with  a  fifth  sorrow  within  the 
four  lines,  poor  thing!     Help  me  to  one?'     'Steal  the  cow,  sister  Anne/  said  the  little 
Elizabeth.     The  cow  was  immediately  lifted  by  me,  and  the  song  completed."    She  showed 
it  to  her  mother  and  family  friends  under  the  promise  of  secrecy,  and  well  did  they  keep 
faith  with  her ;  for,  although  after  the  song  attained  celebrity,  her  mother  was  very  proud 
of  it,  she  contented  herself  with  reciting  the  words  as  anonymous  to  all  within  her  reach. 
For  fifty  years  the  author's  name  was  unknown  to  the  world  in  general.     She  says  that  at 
first  she  concealed  the  fact  of  her  being  an  author  at  all,  "  perceiving  the  shyness  it  cre- 
ated in  those  who  could  write  nothing."     During  the  time  of  this  concealment,  the  song 
was  sung  in  every  corner  of  Scotland,  and  soldiers  and  sailors  carried  it  to  India  and 
America.     A  romance  was  founded  upon  it  by  an  eminent  writer ;  it  was  made  the  subject 
of  a  play,  and  an  opera,  and  a  pantomime :  it  was  claimed  by  others ;  a  sequel  to  it  waa 
written  by  some  cobbler  in  rhyme,  and  it  was  at  once  printed  as  his  production. 

An  intimate  friend,  who  suspected  the  authorship,  said  to  her,  "  By  the  by,  Lady 
Anne,  we  have  a  very  popular  ballad  down  in  Scotland,  which  everybody  says  is  by  you, 
*Auld  Eobin  Gray/  they  call  it.  Is  it  yours?" 


292  OUR   FAMILIAR   SONGS. 

"  Indeed,"  she  answered,  "  I  dinna  think  it  was  me ;  but  if  it  was,  it's  really  sae  lang 
syne,  that  I've  quite  forgot." 

A  gentleman  named  Atkinson,  who  was  in  love  with  her  before  her  marriage,  was 
much  older  than  she,  and  very  rich.  He  used  to  say  that  if  Lady  Anne  would  take  him  as 
an  "Auld  Robin  Gray,"  she  might  seek  for  a  Jamie  after  he  was  gone/ 

But  the  anecdote  which  Lady  Anne  best  enjoyed  telling,  was  this :  "  I  must  mention 
the  Laird  of  Dalziel's  advice,  who  in  a  tete-a-tete  afterwards,  said,  '  My  dear,  the  next  time 
you  sing  that  song,  try  to  change  the  words  a  wee  bit,  and  instead  of  singing  "  To  make 
the  crown  a  pound,  my  Jamie  gaed  to  sea,"  say  "to  make  it  twenty  merks,"  for  a  Scottish 
pound  is  but  twenty  pence,  and  Jamie  was  na  such  a  gowk  as  to  leave  Jenny  and  gang  to 
sea  to  lessen  his  gear.  It  is  that  line  (whispered  he)  that  tells  me  that  song  was  written 
bv  some  bonnie  lassie  that  did  na  ken  the  value  of  the  Scots'  money  quite  as  well  as  an 
auld  writer  of  the  town  of  Edinburgh  would  have  kent  it.'" 

The  Society  of  Antiquaries  made  earnest  investigations,  and  even  sent  their  secretary 
to  inquire  of  Lady  Anne.  She  confesses  that  she  should  have  admitted  the  authorship 
frankly,  if  the  questioner  had  not  tried  to  entrap  her  into  doing  so.  She  adds  that  "the  an- 
noyance of  this  important  ambassador  from  the  antiquaries  was  amply  repaid  to  me  by  the 
noble  exhibition  of  the  « Ballad  of  Auld  Robin  Gray's  Courtship,'  as  performed  by  dancing 
dogs,  under  my  window.  It  proved  its  popularity  from  the  highest  to  the  lowest,  and  gave 
me  pleasure  while  I  hugged  myself  in  obscurity."  Her  final  revelation  recalls  another 
curious  literary  concealment.  A  copy  of  the  ballad,  in  her  own  handwriting,  an  account  of 
its  composition,  and  a  sequel  which  she  also  wrote,  were  sent  to  her  friend,  Sir  Walter 
Scott, with  permission  to  "inform  his  personal  friend,  the  author  of  Waverley."  The  sequel 
is  far  inferior  to  the  song,  and  so  Lady  Anne  knew  it  to  be.  She  only  wrote  it,  she  said, 
to  gratify  her  mother,  who  was  always  desirous  to  know  how  "  the  unlucky  business  of 
Jeanie  and  Jamie  ended."  The  sequel  never  became  popular.  Scott,  in  "The  Pirate,*' 
likens  the  condition  of  Mina  to  that  of  Jeanie  Gray,  in  the  Lady  Anne's  sequel : 

"  Nae  longer  she  wept,  her  tears  were  a'  spent ; 
Despair  it  was  come,  and  she  thought  it  content ; 
She  thought  it  content,  but  her  cheek  it  grew  pale, 
And  she  drooped  like  a  snow-drop  broKe  down  by  the  hail  1 " 

Very  deep  must  have  been  this  woman's  antipathy  to  loud-mouthed  fame ;  for  after 
she  had  entrusted  Scott  with  a  volume  of  lyrics  written  by  herself,  and  others  of  her  bouse, 
and  they  had  been  printed,  and  were  on  the  eve  of  publication,  she  withdrew  her  consent. 
The  book  was  entitled,  "Lays  of  the  Lindsays."  It  was  destroyed,  and  but  a  single  poem 
remains  which  is  known  to  belong  to  it.  This  begins,  "Why  tarries  my  love?"  and  is 
attributed  to  Lady  Anne. 

While  the  authoress  was  "hugging  her  obscurity,"  her  lines  were  set  to  a  new  air,  the 
original  composition  of  REY.  WILLIAM  LEEYES,  Rector  of  Wrington,  Somersetshire,  Eng- 
land, who  died  in  1828.  It  was  so  fine,  that  it  replaced  the  old  one,  to  which  only  the  first 
stanza  is  now  sung,  and  that  is  generally  omitted  altogether.  I  include  both  airs. 

Andante. 


.=£ 


1.  Yonng    Ja  -    mie    lo'ed     me    weel,  And  sought    me     for       his        bride, 

2.  My         fa    -   ther  could  -   na  work  —  My     mith  -   er     could  -  na        spin  ; 


AULD    ROBIN    GRAY. 


2V3 


sav  -  ing      a  crown,  he    had  nae-thing  else     be -side;       To    make   the  crown  a    pound,  my 
toil'd  day  and  night,  but  their  bread    I  could -na    win;     Auld    Rob  maintained  them  baith,and,wi' 


—0- 
— I— 


Ja   -  mie  gaed    to    sea,      And  the  crown     aiid   the  pound  were       baith       for       me.  He 

tears        in      his    e'e,         Said        "Jenny,  for  their  sakes,  will  ye    no'       mar-ryme?"         My 


-H---«- 


-M 0-\ T 

_» 1_L_  _| ,_ 


=*=!&tl 


:&*= 


—j—  ~~rf~     •      =*~- 

?^=EEEE£E   ^P=3=^^^E 


had    -    na    beengane      a  week  but  on  -  ly  twa,  When  my     fa-ther  brake  his    arm,  and  our 

heart       it     said  na,        for  I    look'd  for  Ja  -mie  back ;  But   the    wind       blew        high,  and  the 


M 1— T * 1 S. 

— *— -        — ^ Jv-, 


con  dolore. 


E^^^EEg 


-r~~- 


--W- 


cres. 

— f-       ^~ 

^E5^st==?=^= 


^^ 


i=^=ftii^z^q: 


*33* 


--j-H 

:-3=3 


"  T 

cow  wasstown  a-wa;  My      mith -er  she    fell  sick,  and  my    Ja-mie  at    the  sea,  And 

ship     it  was       a  wrack,     The    ship       it  was    a      wrack  I  Why  did  -  na  Jen -ny  dee?  Oh, 


294 


or/,1 


auld   Ko-bin    Gray  cam    a    court -ing  me. 
why  do      I      live       to    say,  Oh,  wae's  me. 


y_ 


I  *_J- 

•* a — -j~    _ix  rfz 

L    j    •— ^— ^F- 

J »      u== — 1= 


7=FrP^ 

|  dim. 

J-  ' 


Young  Jamie  lo'ed  me  weel  and  sought  me  for 

his  bride, 

But  saving  a  crown,  he  had  naething  else  beside  ? 
To  make  the  crown  a  pound,  my  Jamie  gaed  to  sea, 
And  the  crown  and  the  pound  were  baith  for  me. 
He  had  na  been  gane  a  week  but  only  twa, 
When  my  father  brake  his  arm,  and  our  cow  was 

stown  awa; 

My  mither  she  fell  sick,  and  my  Jamie  at  the  sea, 
And  auld  Robin  Gray  cam'  a  courting  me. 

My  father  couldna  work— my  mither  couldna  spin ; 
I  toiled  day  and  night,  but  their  bread  I  couldna 

win; 
Auld  Rob  maintained  them  baith,  and  wi'  tears 

in  his  e'e, 
Said,  "Jenny,  for  their  sakes,  will  you  no  marry 

me?" 

My  heart  it  said  na,  for  I  looked  for  Jamie  back; 
But  the  wind  it  blew  high,  and  the  ship  it  was  a 

wrack ; 

The  ship  it  was  a  wrack  !     Why  didna  Jenny  dee  ? 
Oh,  why  do  I  live  to  say,  Oh  wae's  me ! 


My  father  argued  sair  —  my  mither  didna  speak. 
But  she  looked  in  my  face  till  my  heart  was  like 

to  break ; 
They  gied  him  my  hand,  tho'  my  heart  was  at  the 

sea; 

And  auld  Rohin  Gray  is  gudeman  to  me. 
I  hadna  been  a  wife,  a  week  but  only  four, 
When  mournfu'  as    I   sat   on    the    stane   at  the 

door, 

I  saw  my  Jamie's  ghaist —  I  couldna  think  it  he. 
Till  he  said,  "  I'm  come  hame,  my  love,  to  marr\ 

thee ! " 

Oh  sair  did  we  greet,  and  mickel  did  we  say ; 
We   took  but  ae   kiss,  and   we    tore   ourselves 

away. 
I    wish    that   I    were   dead,  but    I'm   no   like  to 

dee ; 

Oh  why  do  I  live  to  say,  Oh  wae's  me! 
I  gang  like  a  ghaist,  and  I  carena  to  spin; 
I  darena  think  o'  Jamie,  for  that  wad  be  a  sin. 
But  I  will  do  my  best  a  gude  wife  aye  to  be ; 
For  auld  Robin  Gray  is  a  kind  man  to  me. 


AULD  ROBIN  GRAY. 


(OLD  MELODY.) 


When     the  sheep      are    in      the     f.-mM.        and    the         kye 


hame,         And 


AULD  ROBIN   GRAY. 


:E£j|psE=S 

a' the  warld        to 


*— 5- 


sleep        are   gane,       The      waes       o'     my  heart      fa'      in 


^==33=122 


T 


SEQUEL  TO  AULD  ROBIN  GRAY. 


The  winter  was  come,  'twas  simmer  nae  mair, 
And  trembling,  the  leaves  were  fleeing  thro'  th' 

air; 

"  O  winter,"  says  Jeanie,  "  we  kindly  agree, 
For  the  sun  he  looks  wae  when  he  shines  upon 


Nae  longer  she  mourned,  her  tears  were  a'  spent, 
Despair  it  was  come,  and  she  thought  it  content  — 
She  thought  it  content,  but  her  cheek  it  grew 

pale, 
And   she    bent    like  a    lily  broke   down   by  the 

gale. 

Her  father  and  mother  observed  her  decay ; 

"  What  ails  ye,  my  bairn  ? "  they  oftimes  would  say; 

"Ye  turn  round  your  wheel,  but  you  come  little 

speed, 
For  feeble's  your  hand  and  silly's  your  thread." 

She  smiled  when  she  heard  them,  to  banish  their 

fear, 
But  wae  looks  the  smile  that  is  seen  through  a 

tear ; 

And  bitter's  the  tear  that  is  forced  by  a  love 
Which  honor  and  virtue  can  never  approve. 

Her  father  vras  vexed,  and  her  mother  was  wae, 
But  pensive  and  silent  was  auld  Robin  Gray ; 
He  wandered  his  lane,  and  his  face  it  grew  lean, 
Like  the  side   of  a  brae  where  the  torrent  has 
been. 


Nae   questions   he   spiered   her   concerning  her 

health, 

He  looked  at  her  often,  but  aye  'twas  by  stealth : 
When  his  heart  it  grew  grit,*  and  often  he  feigned 
To  gang  to  the  door  to  see  if  it  rained. 

He  took  to  his  bed  —  nae  physic  he  sought, 
But  ordered  his  friends  all  around  to  be  brought; 
While  Jeannie  supported  his  head  in  its  place, 
Her  tears  trickled  down,  and  they  fell  on  his  face. 

"  Oh,  greet  nae   mair,  Jeannie,"   said  he,   wi'  a 

groan, 
"I'm  no  worth  your  sorrow  —  the  truth  maun  be 

known ; 
Send  round  for  your  neighbors,  my  hour  it  draws 

near, 
And  I've  that  to  tell  that  it's  fit  a'  should  hear. 

"I've    wronged   her,"  he   said,   "but   I   kent  it 

ower  late ; 
I've  wronged  her,  and   sorrow   is  speeding  my 

date; 

But  a'  for  the  best,  since  my  death  will  soon  free 
A  faithful  young  heart  that  was  ill-matched  wi' 

me. 

"  I  lo'ed  and  I  courted  her  mony  a  day, 

The  auld  folks  were  for  me,  but  still  she  said 

nay; 

1  kentna  o'  Jamie,  nor  yet  of  her  vow, 
In  mercy,  forgive  me  —  'twas  I  stole  the  cow. 

•Great,  swollen. 


296 


OUR    FAMILIAR   SOXU*. 


u  I  cared  not  for  Crummie,  I  thought  but  o'  thee — 
I  thought  it  was  Crummie  stood  'twixt  you  and 


me ; 


While  she  fed  your  parents,  oh,  did  you  not  say 
You  never  would  marry  wi'  auld  Robin  Gray  ? 

"  But  sickness  at  hame,  and  want  at  the  door  — 
You  gied  me  your  hand,  while  your  heart  it  was 

sore ; 

I  saw  it  was  sore,  —  why  took  I  her  hand  ? 
Oh,  that  was  a  deed  to  my  shame  o'er  the  land  ! 

"  How  truth  soon  or  late  comes  to  open  daylight ! 
For  Jamie  cam'  back,  and  your  cheek  it  grew 

white  — 
White,  white  grew  your  cheek,  but  aye  true  unto 

me  — 
Ay,  Jennie,  I'm  thankfu'  —  I'm  thankfu'  to  dee. 

"Is  Jamie  come  here  yet?"  —  and  Jamie  they 

saw  — 
"  I've  injured  you  sair,  lad,  so  leave  you  my  a' ; 


Be  kind  to  my  Jeanie,  and  soon  may  it  be  ; 
Waste    nae    time,  my  dauties.f  in  mourning  for 


They  kissed  his  cauld  hands,  and  a  smile  o'er  his 

face 

Seemed  hopefu'  of  being  accepted  by  grace; 
"Oh,  doubtna,"    said   Jamie,    "forgi'en   he    will 

be- 
Wha  wouldna  be  tempted,  my  love,  to  win  thee  ? " 


The  first  days  were  dowie  while  time  slipt  awa'. 
But  saddest  and  sairest  to  Jennie  o'  a', 
Was  thinkin'  she  couldna  be  honest  and  right, 
Wi'  tears  in  her  e'e  while  her  heart  was  sae  light. 

But  nae  guile  had  she,  and  her  sorrow  away, 
The  wife  o'  her  Jamie,  the  tear  couldna  stay  ; 
A  bonnie  wee  bairn  —  the  auld  folks  by  the  fire  — 
Oh,  now  she  has  a'  that  her  heart  can  desire. 

t  Darlings. 


'TIS  SAID  THAT  ABSENCE  CONQUERS  LOVE. 

FREDERICK  WILLIAM  THOMAS,  author  of  the  words  of  the  song  which  follows,  was  born 
in  Providence,  Rhode  Island,  October  25,  1808.  He  passed  his  infancy  in  Charleston,  South 
Carolina,  and  his  youth  in  Baltimore.  In  1830,  he  removed  to  Cincinnati.  Later  he  re- 
moved again  to  the  South.  He  has  been  a  lawyer,  an  editor,  a  professor,  a  Methodist  min- 
ister, a  librarian,  a  lecturer,  and  a  stump  speaker ;  and  through  and  amid  all  of  these  call- 
ings, he  has  been  a  very  prolific  writer  of  prose  and  verse,  At  the  close  of  the  war  he  was 
editing  The  South  Carolinian,  at  Columbia. 

The  familiar  verses  "'Tis  said  that  absence  conquers  love,"  appeared  about  1830,  and 
were  set  to  music  by  E.  THOMAS. 


1. 'Tis      said   that      ab-sence      con-quers  love ;  But      oh,      be  -  lieve      it      not! 
2.    I      plunge  in  -     to      the        bu  -   sy  crowd, And   smile   to      hear    thy  name; 


I've 

And 


tried,       a    -    las!     its       pow'r  to    prove,— But       thou    art         not     for -got!  La- 

yet» a*  thought  a  -  loud,      They     know   me        still    the    same.  And 


^ 


'TIS  SAID    THAT  ABSENCE    CONQUERS   LOVE. 
-*v- 


297 


-dy,     though  fate       has      bid  us  part,        Yet     still         thou  art  as      dear,  As 

when        the     wine-  cup    pass    -      es  round,        I       toast       some  oth    -      er       fair;  But 


i 


i  i 


fix'd       in         this     de   -     vot  -  ed    heart,       As       when     I       clasp'd  thee  here, 
when      I          ask     my       heart  the    sound,     Thy       name   is         ech  -  oed   there. 


1 


1     1 


I 


And  when  some  other  name  I  learn, 

And  try  to  whisper  love, 
Still  will  my  heart  to  thee  return, 

Like  the  returning  dove. 
In  vain,  I  never  can  forget, 

And  would  not  be  forgot ; 
For  I  must  bear  the  same  regret, 

Whate'er  may  be  my  lot. 


E'en  as  the  wounded  bird  will  seek 

Its  favorite  bower  to  die, 
So,  lady,  1  would  hear  thee  speak, 

And  yield  my  parting  sigh. 
'Tis  said  that  absence  conquers  love ; 

But,  oh  !  believe  it  not ; 
I've  tried,  alas  !  its  power  to  prove 

But  thou  art  not  forgot. 


MARION    MOORE. 

JAMES  G.  CLAKK,  author  of  both  words  and  music  of  the  following  song,  was  born  in 
Constautia,  New  York,  June  28,  1830.  His  mother  was  a  very  fine  singer,  and  was  pos- 
sessed also  of  a  poetic  temperament.  Mr.  Clark  spent  much  time  in  roaming  amidst  the 
beautiful  scenery  about  his  home,  and  early  began  to  write  simple  lyrics,  which  have  trav- 
elled throughout  the  land  in  the  poet's  corner  of  newspapers.  He  has  a  fine  voice,  and 
before  he  could  talk  ho  could  carry  a  simple  air  correctly.  He  joined,  as  musical  director, 
the  concert  troupe  of  Ossian  E.  Dodge,  but  in  a  few  years  left  them,  and  since  that  time 
has  given  ballad  concerts  entirely  unassisted.  His  repertoire  comprises  many  pleasing  songs 
of  which  both  words  and  music  are  his  own,  and  many  also  for  which  he  has  written  the 
music  only.  He  now  resides  at  Traverse  Lake,  Minn. 

By  special  permission. 


-r-3-                      -N 

>-&-                   0  -f      -„  — 

y 

1.  Gone                 art     thou, 
2.  Dear                wert   thou, 
3       I                   will       re  - 

_l  :  L  —  tr  4  
i  >  —  ^  —  1—\  

Ma           -        ri  -    on,      Ma 
Ma           -        ri  -    on,      Ma 
mem                 her    thee,    Ma 

ri  -    on    Moore! 
ri  -    on    Moore! 
ri  -    on    Moore! 

—  1.  ,  |._  1  -J!  1  j  i— 

~j  —  \   ",    '                       ~  —  1 

J      «       j            J—  i-^_*         ' 

-*—  ^      *    |    1  J   4—4  —  1  —  ,  —  | 

*f               '     -9-    —  f    •••    —  f          •*• 

Ri^h  -*— 

L4-^—                    ~f 

—          _j  ,  .L_4  A_ 

_i4=_  -j  l—^f=] 

E3  —  i  *  *  

1   "I           A         _[_—           £3J           * 

•^  -*  *  *-  ^ 

OUR  FAMILIAR  8ONGS. 


l£  —  1  '     —  fr  1  p 

E~                     —  f  — 

1  "  ~i 
4-                «t    : 

Gone         like       the     bird                  in       the 
Dear           as        the     tide                  in       my 
I             shall       re  -  mem          -     bcr,      a  - 

t^=         i^T    j*  '    '      g=           =d 

Aa          -     tumn   that     sing  -  eth, 
bro           -       ken  heart    throb  -bing, 
las,                    to       re    -  gret   thee, 

(«  —             •            I   '   *         r~* 

kLi_»=.._::*       i  ^   -•  j.  ;  _pS- 
~j  —  i  —  '~  —  T-  -^- 

i              ^^* 

2i  —  V   *       A  4  *  .  

—  « 

3: 


S  --  K 


^— -N- 


i 


Gone 

Dear 

I 


like  the    flower 

as    the      soul 

will    re  •    gret 


by    the    way 
o'er   thy    mem 
when  all    oth 


side  that    springcth, 

o  -  ry      sobbing, 
ers   for  -  get  thee, 


^ 


Round 
Wast 
Lin 


the    lone       rock 
ing       is          all 
ger     and       burn 


on       a  storm 

the    glad  beau 

till    life's  fe 


bea  -ten  shore, 
ty  of  yore, 
ver  is  "o'er. 


Gone  art  thou,  Marion,  Marion  Moore ! 

Gone    like    the    breeze  o'er  the    billow    that 

bloweth; 

Gone  like  the  rill  to  the  ocean  that  floweth  ; 
Gone    as   the  day,    from    the    grey  mountain 

goeth, 
Darkness  behind  thee,  but  glory  before. 


Peace  to  thee,  Marion,  Marion  Moore, — 

Peace  which  the  queens  of    the  earth  cannot 

borrow ; 
Peace  from  a  kingdom  that  crown'd  thee  with 

sorrow. 

O !  to  be  happy  with  thee  on  the  morrow, 
Who  would  not  fly  from  this  desolate  shore? 


THE   MISTLETOE   HOUGH. 

THE    MISTLETOE  BOUGH. 


299 


THOMAS  HATNES  BAYLY'S  pathetic  song  of  "  The  Mistletoe  Bough,"  was  founded  upon 
a  story  which  is  embodied  in  the  "  Italy'7  of  Samuel  Eogers.  The  story  runs  that  Ginevra, 
a  beautiful  girl  of  illustrious  parentage,  was  wedded  to  a  noble  youth.  Guests  had 
assembled  for  the  marriage-feast,  when  some  one  whispered  that  the  bride  was  missing, 
and  a  boding  thrill  ran  through  the  company.  All  search  for  her  was  fruitless.  A  few 
weeks  afterward,  the  heart-broken  husband  was  killed  in  battle,  in  a  self-sought  encounter, 
while  the  lonely  and  grey-haired  father  was  seen,  year  after  year,  seeking  for  his  long-lost 
child.  One  day,  after  his  death,  a  girl,  as  young  and  thoughtless  as  the  bride  had  been, 
roaming  through  the  musty  galleries  of  the  castle,  came  upon  a  carved  and  massive  chest. 
"  Let's  draw  it  out,"  said  she,  gaily.  She  touched  its  side,  when  lo !  it  crumbled  and  fell 
wide  apart,  and  with  it  fell  what  had  once  been  life  and  beauty.  Amid  the  ruin  shone 
bright  jewels,  a  wedding  ring,  and  a  small  seal  inscribed  "  Ginevra." 


JJJJJJ- 


B 


1.  The     mistletoe  hung  in  the       cas  -  tie    hall,  The     holly  branch  shone  on  the  old    oak  wall,  And  the 
2.  "I'm   wea-ry   of    danc- ing     now,"  she  cried ;"  Here  tar-ry  a  moment, — I'll     hide,   I'll  hide !  And, 


P 


:fc 


^r 


&-J  J  j  J^J-J 

-d  ^  —  jj  j^- 

;         J'       J         4      J      • 

^-  r  r  r  r 

—  ^ 

^  Ns^  «—  

bar-on's    re-tain-ers  were  blithe 
Lov  -  ell,   be  sure  thou'rt  the   first 

7r\\    "i      ^^  "1      ^      si  l 

and   gay,     And 
to   trace     The 

keep-  ing  their  Christ-mas       hoi  -   i  -  day  ;  The 
clue    to    my       se  -  cret       lurking-place."  A- 

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bar-on     be  -held,  with   a        fa-  ther's  pride,  His    beau  -  ti  -  ful  child,  young     Lov  -  el's  bride  ;  While 
-way     she  ran,  —  and  her  friends  be  -  gan   Each   tow  -  er    to  search,  and  each  nook  to  scan  ;And  young 

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300 


OUR    FAMILIAR    SONGS. 


I 


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she,with  her    bright    eyes,  seem'd  to     be      The     star    of    the  good  -    ly         com  -  pa  -  ny. 
Lov   -    el     cried,"  OhjWhere  dost  thou  hide?  I'm  lonesome  without  thee,  my     own  dear  bride !" 


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collet  voce. 

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They  sought  her  that  night,  and  they  sought  her 

next  day, 

And  they  soflght  her  in  vain,  till  a  week  pass'd  away! 
In  the  highest  —  the  lowest  —  the  loneliest  spot, 
Young  Lovell  sought  wildly,  but  found  her  not. 
And  years  flew  by,  and  their  grief  at  last, 
Was  told  as  a  sorrowful  tale  long  past ; 
And  when  Lovell  appeared,  the  children  cried, 
"See  !  the  old  man  weep  for  his  fairy  bride." 
Oh,  the  Mistletoe  bough! 


At  lengtn  an  old  chest,  that  had  long  lain  hid, 

Was  found  in  the  Castle  —  they  raised  the  lid, 

And  a  skeleton  form  lay  mouldering  there, 

With  a  bridal  wreath  in  her  clustering  hair! 

Oh  !  sad  was  her  fate  !  in  sportive  jest. 

She  hid  from  her  lord  in  the  old  oak  chest ; 

It    closed     with     a    spring  !  —  and    her    bridal 

bloom 

Lay  withering  there  in  a  living  tomb. 
Oh,  the  Mistletoe  bough  ! 


ALLAN    WATER. 

MATTHEW  GREGORY  LEWIS,  who  wrote  the  words  of  "  Allan  Water/'  was  born  in  Lon- 
don, England,  in  1775.  His  father  was  wealthy,  and  at  one  time  held  the  office  of  Dep- 
uty Secretary-at-War.  The  son  is  best  known  as  a  writer  of  tales  which  are  characterized 
by  frightful  and  revolting  picturesqueness.  He  is  so  identified  with  the  chief  of  these, 
"  The  Monk,"  that  he  is  familiarly  known  as  "  Monk  Lewis."  He  spent  several  years  in 
Germany,  but  on  his  father's  death,  removed  to  inherited  estates  in  Jamaica,  West  Indies.. 
He  was  a  genial,  warm-hearted  man.  Byron  says :  "  Lewis  was  a  good  man,  a  clever  man, 
but  a  bore.  My  only  revenge  or  consolation  used  to  be  setting  him  by  the  ears  with  some 
vivacious  person  who  hated  bores  especially,— Madame  de  Stael,  or  Hobhouse,  for  example. 
But  I  h'ked  Lewis ;  he  was  the  jewel  of  a  man,  had  he  been  better  set,  I  don't  mean  person- 
ally,— but  less  tiresome;  for  he  was  tedious  as  well  as  contradictory  to  everything  and 
everybody.  Poor  fellow!  he  died  a  martyr  to  his  new  riches, — of  a  second  visit  to 
Jamaica : 

'  I'd  give  the  lands  of  Deloraine 
Dark  Musgrave  were  alive  again  I' 

That  Is, 

I  would  give  many  a  sugar-cane, 
Mat  Lewis  wcie  alive  again!" 


ALLAN     WATER. 


301 


Sir  Walter  Scott  says  of  Lewis :  "  How  few  friends  one  has.  whose  faults  are  only 
ridiculous.  His  visit  was  one  of  humanity,  to  ameliorate  the  condition  of  his  slaves.  He 
did  much  good  by  stealth,  and  was  a  most  generous  creature."  Lewis  died  at  sea  in  1818. 

The  familiar  music  is  the  composition  of  CHARLES  EDWARD  HORN.  He  was  born  in 
London,  in  1786.  His  father  was  a  noted  German  musician,  but  the  son  surpassed  him. 
He  evinced  musical  talent  very  early,  became  one  of  the  finest  baritone  singers  in  London, 
wrote  many  operas,  and  composed  some  of  the  sweetest  and  most  popular  ballad  airs  of 
his  day.  Chorley  speaks  of  him  as  "one  of  those  delicious  and  refined  English  tune 
composers,  to  whom  the  time  present  offers  no  equivalent."  Unfortunately  for  his  airs, 
they  were  too  often  set  to  meaningless  words,  and  so  have  perished.  Horn  came  to  the 
United  States,  and  sang  in  the  Park  Theatre  in  New  York,  but  lost  his  voice,  and  afterward 
kept  a  music  store.  His  wife  was  also  a  well-known  singer.  He  died  in  New  York  in  1849. 


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2.  On        the 

banks....       of      Al   -Ian      Wa    -ter, 
banks....        of      Al   -Ian      Wa    -ter, 

When  the       sweet           spring-time  did 
When  brown    au       -     tumn  spreads  its 

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fall, Was   the       mil 

store, . . . .    There     I        saw .... 


ler's    love  -  ly      daugh  -  ter, 
the     mil  -  ler's   daugh  -  ter, 


Fair-est    of     them 
But  she  smil'd     no 


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302 


OUR  FAMILIAE  SONGS. 


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ne. On      the        banks  of       Al  -  Ian       Wa    -ter,  None    so  gay        as 

nej On      the        banks  of       Al  -  Ian       "Wa    -  ter,  None    so  sad        a> 


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But    the       mil    -       ler's  love  -ly    daugh  -  ter,      Both  from     cold  and  care 


•*•-•••*••••-•.     *      -••      i 


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ALLAN"    WATER, 
p  lento. 


303 


rail,  molto. 

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MARY  OF  THE  WILD   MOOR. 

THE  following  song  is  a  combination  of  old  English  words  and  music.  They  are  both 
very  old ;  but  had  never  been  linked  together  until  JOSEPH  W.  TURNER  united  them,  added 
a  few  hues,  and  adapted  them  with  a  piano  accompaniment,  which  we  give.  In  this  form 
they  appeared  about  1845.  Mr.  Turner  says,  in  a  note  attached  to  the  music,  that  the  song 
recites  the  fate  of  a  beautiful  girl,  wooed  by  a  young  man  whose  suit  was  disapproved  by 
her  parents.  The  lovers  were  secretly  married,  and  when,  a  year  later,  the  young  wife  was 
deserted,  she  made  her  way  to  her  old  home,  only  to  die  upon  the  threshold.  The  song  is 
so  poor  as  poetry,  that  it  has  depended  for  its  popularity  solely  upon  the  plaintive  beauty 
of  an  air  well  suited  to  the  mournful  tale  whose  burden  it  repeats. 


1.  One  night  when  the  wind    it  blew  cold,     Blew 

2.  "Oh.  why    did   I    leave  this  fair  cot,    "Where 


bit  -  ter    a -cross  the  wild  moor;  Young 

once     I  was  hap  -py   and  free ;        Doom'd  to 


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Ma  -  ry  she  came  with  her    child,  Wand'ring  home     to  her  own  fa-  ther's  door;'^- 
roam  without  friends  and  for -got,  Oh, fa-ther,take  pi-  ty     on       me!" 


Crying 
But  her 


304 


<>fi;    FAMILIAR    SONGS. 


-*— r-f-   «= 
« — * *    *  t-* 


Fa  -  ther,    O  pray  let    me       in.         Take  pi  -    ty    ou    me,      I     im  -  plore, 

F»  -  thcr  was  deaf   to    her   cries,        Not    a      voice    or     a  sound  rcach'd  the  door ; 


<>r  ttit- 
But  the 


child      at  my    bo  -som  will     die,  From     the  winds  that  blow  'cross  the  wild    mooF 

watch-dogs  did  howl,  and  the  winds  Blew  bit   -    ter    a  -  cross  the  wild    moor. 


Oh,  how  must  her  father  have  felt 

When  he  came  to  the  door  in  the  morn; 
There  he  found  Mary  dead,  and  the  child 

Fondly  clasped  in  its  dead  mother's  arms, 
While  in  frenzy  he  tore  his  gray  hairs, 

As  on  Mary  he  gazed  at  the  door, 
For  that  night  she  had  perished  and  died, 

From  the  winds  that  blow  'cross  the  wild  moor. 


The  father  in  grief  pined  away, 

The  child  to  the  grave  was  soon  borne; 
And  no  one  lives  there  to  this  day, 

For  the  cottage  to  ruin  has  gone. 
The  villagers  point  out  the  spot, 

Where  a  willow  droops  over  the  door; 
Saying,  "  There  Mary  perished  and  died, 

From  the  winds  that  blow  'cross  the  wild  moor." 


WHAT  AILS  THIS   HEART  O'  MINE? 

SUSANNA  BLAMIRE,  author  of  the  following  lyric,  was  born  January  12,  1747,  at  Garden 
Hall,  near  Carlisle,  England.  She  went  to  Scotland  when  young,  and  remained  there  many 
years.  Her  poems  were  long  scattered  about  unclaimed.  She  is  described  as  having  a  grace- 
ful form,  somewhat  above  middle  size,  and  a  face  slightly  marked  with  small-pox,  but  beaming 
with  kindness,  and  sparkling,  dark  eyes.  She  was  called  "  a  bonnie  and  verra  lish  young 
lass,"%  which  means  a  beautiful  and  very  lively  young  girl.  She  returned  to  Carlisle,  and 
died  there,  April  5,  1794. 

The  old  melody  of  the  song  is  called  "My  dearie,  an'  thou  dee." 


1.  What 

2.  When 


WHAT  AILS'   THIS  HEART  O'  MINE? 


305 


gars  me  aye  turn  cauld  as  death,When  I  take  leave  o' 
rustling  bush  will  seem  to    say,     I    us'd    to  meet  the 


thee? 
meet  thee  there. 


When  thou    art  far     a  -  wa,        Thou'lt 
Then  I'll      sit  down  and  cry,  An' 


Tl        ; «> | M i W —     » 


* !* -^ Mr 35 p— — — ^—  -^r —  i^^  •   » 

-*-? g--X^    0        " 


dear  -  er  grow    to  me ; 
live     aneath    the  tree, 


But  change     o'  place  and  change  o'  folk  May    gar     thy  fan  -  cy  jee. 
An'   when        a  leaf     fa's  in       my  lap,  I'll     ca't       a  word  f rae  thee. 


I'll  hie  me  to  the  bower, 

That  thou  wi'  roses  tied, 
An'  where,  wi'  mony  a  blushing  bud, 

I  strove  mysel'  to  hide. 
I'll  doat  on  ilka  spot, 

Where  I  ha'e  been  wi'  thee, 
An'  ca'  to  mind  some  kindly  word, 

By  ilka  burn  and  tree. 


Wi'  sic  thoughts  in  my  mind, 

Time  thro'  the  warld  may  gae, 
And  find  my  heart  in  twenty  years 

The  same  as  'tis  to-day. 
'Tis  thoughts  that  bind  the  soul, 

An'  keep  friends  in  the  e'e; 
An'  gin  I  think  I  see  thee  aye 

What  can  part  thee  and  me? 


WHEN   OTHER  FRIENDS  ARE   ROUND  THEE. 

THIS  little  song,  first  published  in  1846,  was  written  by  GEORGE  P.  MORRIS.  The  music 
has  been  attributed  confidently  to  Mrs.  Esling,  of  Philadalphia  (nee  Catherine  R.  Water- 
man), a  friend  of  Morris's,  and  a  contributor  to  his  periodical ;  but  in  reply  to  a  letter  of 
inquiry,  she  writes  me  that  she  has  no  connection  whatever  with  the  song.  I  have  no  clue 
to  its  composer,  except  the  misleading  initials,  "C.  E.  W.,"  which  accompany  the  sheet  music. 


^ 


m^=r=R 

J    f  I         u — c — 


1.  When 

2.  Yet 


oth  -  er  friends  are 
do      not  think     I 


round     thee,  And 
douht      thee,     I 


oth  -  er  hearts  are    thine  ; 
know  thy  truth    re  -  mains  ; 


When 


(B 


(201 


306 


oth  -  er   bays     have      crown'd     thee,    More    fresh,  more  green  than   mine, 
would  not  live      with   -     out          thee      For       all      the  world    con  -  tains. 


Then 
Thou 


! 


^=i 


?=?=? 


think,      oh,  think    how         lone 
art       the   star      that       guides 


ly       This  throb  -  bing     heart  must    be, 
me         A  -  cross    life's     trou-  bled    sea, 


inti 


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Which, 
And  what 


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while    it  beats,    beats       on      -       ly,         Be   -     lov  -  ed    one,      for     thee, 
-ev  -   er    fate       be   -    tides  me,      This      heart  will  turn       to      thee, 


m 


Which, 
And  what- 


while      it  beats,  beats       on 
-ev  -     er    fate       be   -    tides 


ly,         Be  -    lov   -    ed      one,      for    thee. 
me,      This  heart     will     turn       to      thee. 


ARABY'S    DAUGHTER. 


ARABY'S    DAUGHTER. 


307 


THE  words  of  "  Araby's  Daughter "  occur  in  Moore's  "  Fire  Worshippers,"  the  third 
story  told  in  "  Lalla  Eookh." 

The  an-  was  composed  by  E.  KIALLMARK,  an  English  musician,  who  was  born  at  King's 
Lynn,  Norfolk,  in  1781.  He  was  left  an  orphan  at  a  very  early  age,  but  kind  relatives 
cared  for  him,  and  fostered  his  fondness  for  music,  and  he  became  celebrated  as  a  teacher 
of  the  art.  When  twenty  years  old,  he  married  a  Scotch  girl,  and  he  afterward  arranged 
some  of  the  most  exquisite  Scottish  music. 


J 


1   Fare  -  well,         fare-well      to  thee,     A  -    ra-by's  daughter      (Thus    war-  bled   a     Pe  -  ri    be- 


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308 


OUR   FAMILIAR   SONGS. 

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2   Nor  shall   I   -  ran,  be-loved     of  her     He  -  ro !   for  -  get  thee,      Tho'      ty- rants  watch  o  -  ver  her 

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moon  -   light     have       slept     Fare  -  well,        fare    -    well,         fare   -   well 


ARABY'N    DAUGHTER. 


309 


Farewell  —  farewell  to  thee,  Araby's  daughter, 
(Thus  warbled  a  Peri  beneath  the  dark  sea.) 

No  pearl  ever  lay,  under  Oman's  green  water, 
More  pure  in  its  shell  than  thy  spirit  in  thee. 

Oh  !  fair  as  the  sea-flower  close  to  thee  growing, 
How  light  was  thy  heart  till  Love's  witchery 

came, 
Like  the  wind  of  the  south,  o'er  a  summer  lute 

blowing, 

And   hushed   all   its   music,  and   withered   its 
frame ! 

But  long,  upon  Araby's  green,  sunny  highlands, 
Shall  maids   and   their  lovers   remember  the 

doom 
Of   her    who    lies    sleeping    among   the    Pearl 

Islands, 

With  naught  but  the  sea-star  to  light  up  her 
tomb. 

And  still,  when  the  merry  date-season  is  burning, 
And  calls  to  the  palm-groves  the  young  and  the 
old, 

The  happiest  there,  from  their  pastime  returning 
At  sunset,  will  weep  when  thy  story  is  told. 

The  young  village-maid,  when  with  flowers  she 

dresses 

Her  dark-flowing  hair  for  some  festival  day, 
Will    think    of    thy    fate     till,    neglecting    her 

tresses, 
She  mournfully  turns  from  the  mirror  away. 


Nor  shall    Iran,   beloved   of   her   Hero!    forget 

thee  — 
Though  tyrants  watch  over  her  tears  as  they 

start, 
Close,  close  by  the  side  of  that  Hero  she'll  set 

thee, 
Embalmed  in  the  innermost  shrine  of  her  heart. 

Farewell  —  be  it  ours  to  embellish  thy  pillow 
With  everything  beauteous  that  grows  in  the 

deep; 
Each  flower  of  the  rock,  and  each  gem  of  the 

billow 
Shall  sweeten  thy  bed  and  illumine  thy  sleep. 

Around  thee  shall  glisten  the  loveliest  amber 
That  ever  the  sorrowing  sea-bird  has  wept; 

With   many   a   shell,    in   whose   hollow-wreath'd 

chamber, 
We  Peris  of  ocean  by  moonlight  have  slept. 

We'll  dive  where  the  gardens  of  coral  lie  darkling, 
And  plant  all  the  rosiest  stems  at  thy  head; 

We'll  seek  where  the  sands  of  the  Caspian  are 

sparkling, 
And  gather  their  gold  to  strew  over  thy  bed. 

Farewell  —  farewell  —  until  Pity's  sweet  fountain 

Is  lost  in  the  hearts  of  the  fair  and  the  brave, 
They'll  weep  for  the  chieftain  who  died  on  that 

mountain, 

They'll  weep  for  the  maiden  who  sleeps  in  this 
wave. 


MARY'S    DREAM. 

THE  poor  but  sensitive  and  cultivated  tutor,  falling  into  hopeless  love  with  his  fair 
pupil,  has  furnished  a  theme  for  numberless  romances.  The  true  story  of  the  author  of 
"  Mary's  Dream  "  affords  us  a  variation  from  it.  Nothing  is  wanting  but  a  proper  denou6- 
ment,  to  make  this  bit  of  history  just  like  a  story-book.  We  can  now  imagine  the  lady 
true  always  to  the  betrothed  husband  who  comes  in  a  dream  to  comfort  her,  and  a  poet 
friend,  with  feeling  and  fancy  enough  to  put  the  visitation  into  tender  words,  who  has  not 
usurped  the  place  of  the  lost  lover. 

JOHN  LOWE  was  born  in  Galloway,  Scotland,  in  1750.  His  father  was  a  gardener,  and 
after  gleaning  a  little  education  at  the  parish  school,  the  sou  showed  good  talent  for  music, 
and  devoted  himself  to  the  art.  He  was  fondest  of  sacred  music,  which  he  taught  for  his 
support.  He  finally  succeeded  in  going  through  the  University  of  Edinburgh,  and  soon  after 
became  tutor  to  Miss  McGhie,  daughter  of  a  Scottish  gentleman.  While  he  was  in  the 
family,  the  accepted  lover  of  the  young  lady,  Alexander  Miller,  was  drowned  at  sea,  and 
on  the  sorrowful  event  this  song  was  written.  Lowe  also  composed  a  beautiful  air  to  it, 
which  has  been  supplanted. 


310 


OUR   FAMILIAR   SONGS. 


He  came  to  the  United  States,  and  opened  a  school  in  Fredericksburgh,  Virginia,  and 
afterwards  took  orders  in  the  Episcopal  Church.  Domestic  and  other  troubles  brought 
him  to  his  grave  in  1798. 

This  song  has  had  more  true  lovers  than  almost  any  other.  Washington  Irving,  in  his 
uld  age,  loved  to  recall  his  sister's  singing  of  the  ballad.  "  How  constantly  it  made  me 
weep,"  he  used  to  say,  "  and  yet  how  constantly  I  begged  of  her  to  sing  it." 


I.  The    moon     had    climb'd     the       high    -    est     hill,        Which    ris    -      es        o'er  the 

2   She     from      her         pil    -    low      gent    -    ly     rais'd        Her        head,      to        ask         who 


*EEjE 
^=1=3 


^  P 

source  of     Dee,        And  from   the     east  -    ern   sum  -  mit    shed        Her    sil  -    ver    light        on 
there  might  be—       She  saw  young  San  -    dy     shiv  -'ring  stand,    With  vis  -    age    pale        and 

K 


»tzr 


*  5 


S^s 


tow'r    and  tree;  When  Ma -ry  laid       her  down    to    sleep,        Her  thoughts  on     San  -  dy 

hoi  -  low  e'e : —         <;O       Ma  -  ry  dear  1    cold    is       my     clay,         It         lies    far  be  -  neat  h  a 


[       j        l 

1 1  0    \  _J=33=:«_  -fgjj       • 


-^ 


_  L_          .-,   _  .     


A      I  ^k 

-F— ^ — ^^ n 

*B — "v_  ~^'  0 *-* 


far      at  sea;    When  soft  and  low       a    voice  was  heard  Say,  "Ma- ry,  weep    no  more  for  me." 
storm -y  sea;     Far,    farfromthee,      I    sleep   in  death,    So    "Ma -ry,  weep    no  more  for  me." 


MARY'S    DREAM. 


31' 


The  moon  had  climbed  the  highest  hill, 

Which  rises  o'er  the  source  of  Dee, 
And  from  the  eastern  summit  shed 

Her  silver  light  on  tower  and  tree  ; 
When  Mary  laid  her  down  to  sleep, 

Her  thoughts  on  Sandy,  far  at  sea ; 
When  soft  and  low,  a  voice  was  heard, 

Say,  "  Mary,  weep  no  more  for  me." 

She  from  her  pillow  gently  raised 

Her  head,  to  ask  who  there  might  be  — 
She  saw  young  Sandy  shivering  stand, 

With  visage  pale  and  hollow  e'e ; — 
"  O,  Mary,  dear  !  cold  is  my  clay, 

It  lies  beneath  a  stormy  sea; 
Far,  far  from  thee,  I  sleep  in  death  ;  — 

So,  Mary,  w«ep  no  more  for  me ! 


"  Three  stormy  nights  and  stormy  days, 

We  tossed  upon  the  raging  main; 
And  long  we  strove  our  bark  to  save,  — 

But  all  our  striving  was  in  vain. 
E'en  then,  when  horror  chilled  my  blood, 

My  heart  was  filled  with  love  for  thee ; 
The  storm  is  past,  and  I  at  rest ;  — 

So,  Mary,  weep  no  more  for  me  ! 

"O,  maiden,  dear,  thyself  prepare, — 

We  soon  shall  meet  upon  that  shore 
Where  love  is  free  from  doubt  and  care, 

And  thou  and  I  shall  part  no  more." 
Loud  crowed  the  cock,  the  shadow  fled, 

No  more  of  Sandy  could  she  see  ; 
But  soft  the  passing  spirit  said, 

"  Sweet  Mary,  weep  no  more  for  me  1  '* 


CONNEL    AND    FLORA. 

THE  most  wandering  of  all  Bohemians  was  the  Scottish  poet  and  American  ornithol- 
ogist, ALEXANDER  WILSON.  He  was  born  in  Paisley,  Scotland,  July  6,  1766.  His  father 
was  a  distiller  in  a  small  way,  but,  for  the  son,  the  parents  aspired  to  the  church.  His 
mother  died  when  he  was  but  ten  years  old,  and  three  years  afterward  his  father  married 
again,  and  he  was  apprenticed  to  a  weaver.  From  his  mother  he  had  inherited  a  love  for 
books  and  music,  and  he  had  made  good  use  of  school  instruction.  For  several  years  he 
worked  steadily  at  a  distasteful  occupation,  writing  poems  all  the  time  in  secret.  He  was 
fond  of  Nature,  and  finally  his  trade  became  so  intolerable  that  he  sought  her  in  a  way  not 
generally  connected  with  romance.  He  strapped  a  peddler's  pack  across  his  shoulders, 
and  began  pilgrimages  over  hill  and  through  valley,  writing  as  the  spirit  seized  him,  and 
keeping  a  minute  diary  of  all  he  saw.  We  recall  the  opinion  of  the  sage  Andrew  Fair- 
service,  in  "Rob  Roy,"  as  to  the  traveling  merchant:  "  It's  a  creditable  calling, and  a 
gainfu',  and  has  lang  been  in  use  wi7  our  folk." 

When  twenty-three  years  old,  the  wandering  bard  had  enough  of  the  confidence  of 
age  and  the  enthusiasm  of  youth,  to  venture  to  offer  his  poems  for  publication.  They  were 
refused;  but  a  year  after  their  rejection,  he  had  accumulated  means  enough  to  print  them 
himself,  and  carried  them  around  the  country  with  his  other  wares.  Money  failed  to  roll 
in  upon  the  tradesman  who  was  "  book-learned,"  and  fame  refused  to  come  at  the  call 
of  a  poet  who  was  wielding  a  yard-stick ;  so  the  wants  of  the  man  who  was  behind  both, 
compelled  him  to  return  to  the  loom  once  more. 

A  society  had  been  established  in  Edinburgh  for  debate  from  literary  aspirants,  and 
Mr.  Wilson  prepared  a  poem  upon  a  subject  appointed  by  the  committee — the  comparative 
merits  of  Ramsay  and  Ferguson.  He  doubled  his  hours  of  labor  to  earn  the  money  which 
carried  him  to  the  capital  with  his  manuscript,  entitled  "  The  Laurel  Disputed,"  arrived  in 
time  to  repeat  it  in  the  "  Forum,"  and  remained  several  weeks  trying  to  find  a  market  for 
both  poetry  and  prose,  but  returned  to  his  workshop  disappointed.  Here  he  met  Burns, 
and  a  year  later  he  published  a  ballad  called  "  Watty  and  Meg,"  which  brought  him  into 
notice,  and  was  pronounced  worthy  of  Burns. 

Scotland  seems  to  have  an  unhappy  faculty  for  getting  rid  of  her  brightest  sons.  A 
satire  written  in  defence  of  the  hand-loom  operators  of  Paisley,  so  outraged  their  employ- 


312 


OUR  FAMILIAR  SONGS. 


era,  that  Wilson  was  imprisoned,  and  compelled  to  burn  the  poem  publicly,  in  front  of  the 
jail.  From  that  time,  his  path  was  so  hunted  that  he  fled  the  land.  Like  Burns,  he  was 
obliged  to  work  hard  for  the  money  to  carry  him  away  from  those  who  would  some  time 
be  proudest  to  own  him;  but,  unlike  Burns,  when  four  months  of  toil  were  over,  no  encour- 
aging hand  restrained  him  by  a  hearty  touch  upon  the  shoulder.  He  set  sail  for  America, 
in  1794,  and  lauded  at  Newcastle,  Delaware,  July  14.  With  a  gun  on  his  shoulder,  and  a 
few  shillings  in  his  pocket,  he  set  out  to  walk  to  Philadelphia.  During  the  long  journey, 
he  shot  a  red-headed  wood-pecker,  and  had  time  to  examine  it  attentively.  This  was  his 
first  lesson  in  ornithology.  He  became  a  copper-plate  printer  in  Philadelphia,  then  a 
weaver,  then  a  pedler  in  New  Jersey,  where  he  kept  his  journal,  as  of  old.  He  then  turned 
schoolmaster,  and  was  himself  a  student  in  the  sciences.  He  formed  the  acquaintance  of 
William  Bartram,  the  naturalist,  and  Alexander  Lawson,  the  engraver,  and  the  result  was 
a  project  to  describe,  with  drawings,  all  the  birds  of  the  Middle  States — finally,  all  in 
the  Union.  The  plan  was  so  large  that  everybody  was  frightened  from  it,  except  the 
indefatigable  author.  He  tramped,  and  wrote,  and  drew,  and  colored,  until  the  first 
volume  was  ready  for  publication.  In  the  mean  time,  he  had  fallen  upon  a  noble  and  liberal 
publisher,  Samuel  Bradford,  of  Philadelphia.  The  book  contained  the  finest  illustrations 
yet  published  in  this  country,  and  was  eminently  successful.  Wilson  continued  his  voy- 
ages alone,  and  in  the  midst  of  privations.  One  trip  he  took  in  a  little  skiff,  going  the 
length  of  the  Ohio  Eiver,  through  many  perils,  and  writing  poetry  as  he  went.  So  he 
persevered,  until  seven  volumes  had  been  published.  In  preparing  the  eighth,  he  endan- 
gered his  life  by  swimming  in  pursuit  of  a  rare  bird,  and  the  result  of  the  exposure  was 
his  death,  August  23,  1813.  His  last  wish  was,  that  he  be  buried  near  some  sunny  spot, 
where  the  birds  would  come  and  sing. 

The  title  to  the  air  of  his  song  is,  "  Good  Morrow,  fair  Mistress." 


SlOW. 


Arranged  by  Edward  S.  Cumminge. 


Dark     low    -    ers       the       night      o'er       the  wide,    storm  -  y          main. 


TNI 


mild 


ro    -     sy. 


morn  -    ing 


rise 


cheer  ful      a 


gain; 


i 


0  —  ..^0 


m 


:*z= 


CONNEL     AND   FLORA. 


313 


-    las  I    morn         re       -  turns      to         re       -    vis    -      it        the 


shore, 


But 


Dark  lowers  the  night  o'er  the  wide  stormy  main, 
Till  mild,  rosy  morn  rise  cheerful  again ; 
Alas  !  morn  returns  to  revisit  the  shore, 
But  Connel  returns  to  his  Flora  no  more. 

For  see,  on  yon  mountain,  the  dark  cloud  of  death, 
O'er  Connel's  lone  cottage,  lies  low  on  the  heath ; 


While  bloody  and  pale,  on  a  far  distant  shore, 
He  lies,  to  return  to  his  Flora  no  more. 

Ye  light  floating  spirits  that  glide  o'er  the  steep, 
O  would  ye  but  waft  me  across  the  wild  deep ; 
There  fearless  I'd  mix  in  the  battle's  loud  roar, 
I'd  die  with  my  Connel,  and  leave  him  no  mor«. 


TRUE   LOVE  CAN   NE'ER   FORGET. 

THE  incident  which  gave  rise  to  the  following  song,  by  SAMUEL  LOYER,  has  been  the 
foundation  of  several  other  ballads,  some  of  them  translated  from  the  ancient  Irish.  The 
story  runs  that  Carolan,  a  blind  harper,  recognized  his  early  love,  Bridget  Cruise,  by  the 
touch  of  her  hand,  although  he  had  not  met  her  for  twenty  years. 

The  old  lover  was  playing  by  the  water,  when  a  ferry-boat  drew  near,  and  he  chanced 
to  assist  the  lady  to  alight.  TTJRLOGH  O'CAROLAN,  the  bard,  was  one  of  the  characters  ot 
Ireland.  He  was  born  in  Nobber,  county  Westmeath,  in  1670,  and  was  the  last  of  the 
ancient  race  of  Irish  bards.  He  lost  his  eyesight  at  the  age  of  sixteen.  He  made  very 
beautiful  words,  but  was  chiefly  noted  for  his  exquisite  melodies.  Goldsmith,  who  had 
seen  him  in  his  boyhood,  wrote  in  later  life :  "  His  songs  may  be  compared  to  those  ot 
Pindar,  they  bearing  the  same  flight  of  imagination." 


"True    love    can    ne'er      for -get, 

Thus  sung      a       min  -  strel  gray, 
"Long  years    are    past      and   o'er, 
Scarce  -  ly       the     min  -  strel  spoke, 
Where    min  -  strel    sat          a  -  lone, 
With   lips  whence  bless  -  ings  came, 


Fond  -  ly       as    when       we  met, 

His    sweet,   im  -  pass  -  ioned  lay, 

Since  from    this      fa    -    tal  shore, 

When  forth,  with  flash  -    ing  stroke, 

That       la  -   dy  -  fair      hath  gone ; 

He     kissed  with    tru  -    est  flame 


•__    •»•         f g T  f. 


Dear  -  est  I 
Down  by  the 
Cold  hearts  and 
Light  oars  the 
In  his  hand  she 
Her  baud,  and 

"*"  " 


14 

OUR  1 

^AMILIAR  HO^GS. 
Fine. 

love     tbee  yet, 
o  -  cean's  spray, 
cold    winds  bore 
si  -  lence  broke, 
placed  her  own  — 
named  //•  /•  name, 

bl        f 

r      ' 

My       darl  -  ing 
At       set       of 
My       love  from 
O    -    ver      the 
He      bowed  his 
He      could    not 

-f  1....  .l_| 

sim.1'                With-cred  was     the 

me." 
<(..t                    Soon      up  -  on      her 

knee. 
gee>                    True           love    can 

•  1                  ,j                 , 

min  -  strel's  sight, 
na  -     tive  strand 
ne'er     for  -  get 

^=^~^£=\ 

—  *—  «  |«— 

—  —  rt=£- 

=3=^ 


D.C. 


$*** 


^T~^~'^3^^^. 

i — - — *=I: — ^— — - — *-^-*-LJ— *-*H 


Morn  to  him  was  dark  as  night ;  Yet  his  heart  was  full  of  light,  As  he  this  lay  be -gun; 
Doth  a  love  -  ly  la  -  dy  land,While  the  minstrel's  love-taught  hand  Did  o'er  his  wild  harp  run ; 
Fond  -  ly  as  when  they  met,  He  loved  his  la  -  dy  yet,  His  darl  -  ing  one ! 


JEANIE   MORRISON. 

WILLIAM  MOTHERWELL  was  but  fourteen  years  old  when  he  made  the  first  draft  of 
"  Jeanie  Morrison."  The  boy's  nature  was  unusually  delicate,  and  throughout  his  short  life 
he  was  lovable  and  gentle.  He  was  bora  in  Glasgow,  October  13,  1797.  His  father  was 
an  ironmonger.  The  family  were  in  comfortable  circumstances,  and  the  poet  received  a 
fine  education.  He  held  some  small  government  offices,  and  then  became  a  newspaper 
editor.  He  had  charge  of  three  journals,  and  meantime  edited  his  well-known  "Minstrelsy, 
Ancient  and  Modem/'  an  edition  of  Burns,  in  connection  with  Hogg,  a  collection  of  "  Scot- 
tish Songs,"  and  "  Scottish  Proverbs."  He  also  collected  his  own  poetry,  of  which  a  few 
pieces  are  among  the  best  loved  in  our  language.  He  died  at  the  age  of  thirty-eight. 

While  Motherwell  was  still  very  young,  his  parents  moved  to  Edinburgh,  and  he  was 
sent  to  school  to  William  Lennie.  To  the  same  school  came  the  pretty  Jeanie  Morrison, 
and  we  have  the  master's  own  quaint  account  of  the  "  twa  bairnies": 

"William  Motherwell  entered  my  school,  then  kept  at  No.  8  Crichton  street,  in  the 
neighborhood  of  George  Square,  on  the  24th  of  April,  1805,  and  left  it  for  the  High  School, 
on  the  7th  day  of  October,  1808.  He  was  between  seven  and  eight  years  old  when  he 
joined;  an  open-faced,  finn,  and  cheerful-looking  boy.  He  began  at  the  alphabet,  and 
though  he  did  not,  at  first,  display  any  uncommon  ability,  his  mind  soon  opened  up,  and 
as  he  advanced  in  his  education,  he  speedily  manifested  a  superior  capacity,  and  ulti- 
mately became  the  best  scholar  in  the  school  j  yet  he  never  showed  any  of  that  petulant 
or  supercilious  bearing  which  some  children  discover,  who  see  themselves  taken  notice  of 
for  the  quickness  of  their  parts.  He  was,  on  the  contrary,  kind  and  accommodating ; 
always  ready  to  help  those  who  applied  to  him  for  assistance,  and  a  first-rate  hand  for 
carrying  on  sport  during  the  hours  of  recreation. 

"Jane  (Jeanie)  Morrison  was  the  daughter  of  one  of  the  most  respectable  brewers  and 
corn-factors  then  in  Alloa.  She  came  to  Edinburgh,  to  finish  her  education,  and  was  in 
my  school,  with  William  Motherwell,  during  the  last  year  of  his  course.  She  was  about 


JEAN1E  MORRISON. 


315 


the  same  age  with  himself,  a  pretty  girl,  and  of  good  capacity.  Her  hair  was  of  a  lightish 
brown,  approaching  to  fair;  her  eyes  were  dark,  and  had  a  sweet  and  gentle  expression; 
her  temper  was  mild,  and  her  manners  unassuming.  Her  dress  was  also  neat  and  tidy.  In 
winter  she  wore  a  pale  blue  pelisse,  then  the  fashionable  color,  and  a  light-colored  beaver, 
with  a  feather.  She  made  a  great  impression  on  young  Motherwell,  and  that  it  was  per- 
manent, his  beautiful  ballad  shows.  At  the  end  of  the  season,  she  returned  to  her  parents, 
at  Alloa,  with  whom  she  resided  until  the  time  of  her  marriage.  She  is  now  a  widow,  with 
a  family  of  three  children."  Jeanie  Morrison's  married  name  was  Murdoch.  Her  husband 
was  a  merchant  in  Glasgow.  She  is  described  in  after  life  as  very  elegant  in  personal 
appearance,  and  always  characterized  by  the  gentle  manners  which  won  the  sensitive- 
hearted  boy  poet,  of  whose  romantic  devotion  she  was  wholly  unconscious. 
.  WILLIAM  B.  DEMPSTER  set  the  poem  to  music,  and  used  to  render  it  finely  at  his  concerts. 

Andantino. 


1.  I've    wan  -dered    east,    I've 


wan  -  dered  west,  Thro'  mon  -  y    a   wea  -   ry 

— n, 


way ;        But 


for-get,      The      luve     o'      life's  young    day! 

3 


~i       -I         -t -4 -]     i    -I 

S=ii±==ti±izi=,_  J_  j — I 


r 1 — k — — a — m • 


fire  that's  blawn  on     Beltane  e'en  May   weel  be  black  gin    Yule ;           But  black  -  or    fa'     a    - 


IgE^j^ 

I— J          — 


ad  lib. 


.^-^-p—    _£i_is_:?v  =ip_^«rq: 


waits      the  heart,    But  black -er  fa'      a  -  waits  the  heart,  Where  first  fond  luve  grows  cule. 

.^  /Ts 

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316 


OUK   FAMILIAR   SONGS. 


I've  wandered  east—  I've  wandered  west, 

Through  mony  a  weary  way ; 
But  never,  never  can  forget 

The  luve  o'  life's  young  day ! 
The  fire  that's  blawn  on  Beltane  e'en 

May  weel  be  black  gin  Yule  ; 
But  blacker  fa'  awaits  the  heart 

Where  first  fond  luve  grows  cule. 

0  dear,  dear  Jeanie  Morrison, 
The  thochts  o'  bygane  years 

Still  fling  their  shadows  ower  my  path, 

And  blind  my  een  wi'  tears ; 
They  blind  my  een  wi'  saut,  saut  tears, 

And  sair  and  sick  I  pine, 
As  memory  idly  summons  up 

The  blithe  blinks  o'  langsyne. 

'Twas  then  we  luveit  ilk  ither  weel, 

'Twas  then  we  twa  did  part ; 
Sweet  time  —  sad  time  !  twa  bairns  at  scule, 

Twa  bairns,  and  but  ae  heart ! 
'Twas  then  we  sat  on  ae  laigh  bink, 

To  leir  ilk  ither  lear ; 
And  tones,  and  looks,  and  smiles  were  shed, 

Remembered  evermair. 

1  wonder,  Jeanie,  aften  yet, 
When  sitting  on  that  bink, 

Cheek  touchin'  cheek,  loof  locked  in  loof, 
What  our  wee  heads  could  think. 

When  baith  bent  doun  ower  ae  braid  page, 
Wi'  ae  buik  on  our  knee, 

Thy  lips  were  on  thy  lesson,  but 
•  My  lesson  was  in  thee. 

O,  mind  ye  how  we  hung  our  heads, 

How  cheeks  brent  red  wi'  shame, 
Whene'er  the  scule-weans,  laughin',  said 

We  decked  thegither  hame? 
And  mind  ye  o'  the  Saturdays, 

(The  scule  then  skail't  at  noon,) 
When  we  ran  off  to  speel  the  braes, — 

The  broomy  braes  o'  June. 

My  head  rins  round  and  round  about, 

My  heart  flows  like  a  sea, 
As  ane  by  ane  the  thochts  rush  back 

O'  scule-time,  and  o'  thee. 
O  mornin'  life !   O  mornin'  luve ! 

O  lichtsome  days  and  lang, 
When  hinnied  hopes  around  our  hearts 

Like  simmer  blossoms  sprang. 


O,  mind  ye,  luve,  how  aft  we  left 

The  deavin,'  dinsome  toun, 
To  wander  by  the  green  burnside, 

And  hear  its  waters  croon  ? 
The  simmer  leaves  hung  ower  our  heads,. 

The  flowers  burst  round  our  feet, 
And  in  the  gloamin'  o'  the  wood 

The  throssil  whusslit  sweet. 

The  throssil  whusslit  in  the  wood, 

The  burn  sang  to  the  trees, — 
And  we,  with  nature's  heart  in  tune. 

Concerted  harmonies ; 
And  on  the  knowe  abune  the  burn, 

For  hours  thegither  sat 
In  the  silentness  o'  joy,  till  baith 

Wi'  very  gladness  grat. 

Ay,  ay,  dear  Jeanie  Morrison, 

Tears  trickled  doun  your  cheek 
Like  dew-beads  on  a  rose,  yet  nane 

Had  ony  power  to  speak! 
That  was  a  time,  a  blessed  time, 

When  hearts  were  fresh  and  young,. 
When  freely  gushed  all  feelings  forth 

Unsyllabled  —  unsung ! 

I  marvel,  Jeanie  Morrison, 

Gin  I  hae  been  to  thee 
As  closely  twined  wi'  earliest  thochts 

As  ye  hae  been  to  me ! 
O,  tell  me  gin  their  music  fills 

Thine  ear  as  it  does  mine  ! 
O,  say  gin  e'er  your  heart  grows  grit 

Wi'  dreamings  o'  langsyne  I 

I've  wandered  east,  I've  wandered  west, 

I've  borne  a  weary  lot, 
But  in  my  wanderings  far  or  near, 

Ye  never  were  forgot. 
The  fount  that  first  burst  frae  this  heart 

Still  travels  on  its  way, 
And  channels  deeper,  as  it  rins, 

The  luve  o'  life's  young  day. 

O  dear,  dear  Jeanie  Morrison, 

Since  we  were  sindered  young, 
I've  never  seen  your  face  nor  heard 

The  music  o'  your  tongue; 
But  I  could  hug  all  wretchedness, 

And  happy  could  I  dee, 
Did  I  but  ken  your  heart  still  dreamed 

O'  bygane  days  and  me  ! 


AE  FOND    KISS. 

AE    FOND    KISS. 


317 


SIR  WALTER  SCOTT'S  saying  that  "  the  four  lines  beginning  <  Had  we  never  loved  sae 
kindly/  contained  the  essence  of  a  thousand  love-poems/'  is  almost  as  well  known  as  the 
song  itself,  which  is  BURNS  at  his  sweetest. 


1st  Voice. 


Arranged  by  Edward  S.  Cummings. 
8 


2ti  Voice. 

1.  Ae    fond    kiss,    and     then    we      sev    -    er; 

2.  I'll    ne'er  blame    my       par  -  tial      fan    -   cy, 


Ae      fare -well,    a    -    las!     for - 
Nae  -  thing  could   re   -    slst      my 


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rro"  &    2      «       ;             A                  »       «       «       •      -«    ^  -•         *             *            * 
VM?             -  -  *      *                                          355S45' 
«y                      *       •                                                                                          »     ( 

-     ev       -    er;                               Deep     in   heart-wrung  tears    I'll     pledge        thee, 
Nan     -   cy;                                But      to      dee     her,     was      to         love         her, 

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War  -  ring  sighs     and    groans     I'll        wage     thee. 
Love      but    her,      and       love        for    -    ev    -     er. 


Who      shall  say       that  for  -  tune 
Had       we    nev    -  er  loved    sae 


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grieves  him,  While  the  star     of  hope  she  leaves   him? 

kind-  ly,  Had     we  nev  -  er  loved  sae  blind  -  ly, 


Me,    nae  cheer-fu'  twin-kle 
Nev  -  ermet—  or  nev-er 


318 


OUR   FAMILIAR   SONGS. 


Ae  fond  kiss,  and  then  we  sever; 
Ae  farewell,  alas  !  forever ; 
Deep  in  heart-wrung  tears  I'll  pledge  thee, 
Warring  sighs  and  groans  I'll  wage  thee, 
Who  shall  say  that  fortune  grieves  him, 
While  the  star  of  hope  she  leaves  him  ? 
Me,  nae  cheerfu'  twinkle  lights  me ; 
Dark  despair  around  benights  me. 
Ae  fond  kiss. 

I  '11  ne'er  blame  my  partial  fancy, 
Naething  could  resist  my  Nancy ; 
But  to  see  her,  was  to  love  her ; 
Love  but  her,  and  love  for  ever, 
Had  we  never  loved  sae  kindly,     ' 


Had  we  never  loved  sae  blindly, 
Never  met — or  never  parted, 
We  had  ne'er  been  broken-hearted. 
Ae  fond  kiss. 


Fare-thee-weel,  thou  first  and  fairest ! 
Fare-the-weel,  thou  best  and  dearest ! 
Thine  be  ilka  joy  and  treasure, 
Peace,  enjoyment,  love  and  pleasure ! 
Ae  fond  kiss  and  then  we  sever  ; 
Ae  farewell,  alas !  for  ever ! 
Deep  in  heart-wrung  tears  I'll  pledge  thee, 
Warring  sighs  and  groans  I'll  wage  thee. 
Ae  fond  kiss. 


THERE'S   NAE   ROOM    FOR  TWA. 

THE  following  Scotchy-sounding  ballad  dates  back  to  1852,  and  is  attributed  to  GER- 
TRUDE DANBY  and  GUSTAVE  SATTER.  Of  the  former,  the  author  of  the  words,  I  can  learn 
nothing.  Mr.  Satter  is  a  well-known  musician,  who  was  bora  in  Trieste  about  1825,  and 
came  to  New  York  city  many  years  ago.  He  gave  his  first  concert  in  the  music  store  of 
G.  Schirmer,  on  Broadway.  He  exhibited  much  musical  genius,  and  was  especially  famed 
for  the  ease  and  rapidity  with  which  he  read  music  at  sight.  He  has  long  been  absent 
from  New  York,  much  of  the  time  in  Europe,  and  he  now  resides  in  Savannah,  Georgia. 


THERE'S  NAE  ROOM  FOR  TWA. 

>  -^ 


319 


~:*~ 


I        and    Kit  -   ty       walked      a  -  braid,      An'     Ja  -  mie    walked     a  -  tween.  We 

thoughts,  a  -    las  1          are        i    -    die     now,      For     Kit-  ty          is         his  bride.  He 


fc 


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reached    the    brig       o'er  yon       wee    linn,  Our    bon  -  ny     brig       sae    sma'; 
could     na',     an'        he     wad      hae    baith,  For  that's  for-    bid        by    law; 


2EES3 


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tempo. 


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"Jenny, "said  Jem,    "maun  walk       be-hin,"      There's  nae        room      for    twa,"  "There's 

In  wed-  ded  life,  an'    wed   -  ded     love,     There's  nae       room      for    twa,"  "There's 


ztjiff — —  -  -^ —       =p^ — —         ==  iirgv— 1£.— - — T--I        =p: 


tnf  tempo. 


ag-^ 


:=* 


_ 


(a  "very  little  faster.) 


nae        room     for    twa,"    said      he,       "There's  nae   room  for    twa,"  O,... 

nae        room     for    twa,"      ye      ken,      "There's  nae    room  for    twa."  So!    I- 


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320 


OUR   FAMILIAR    SONOS. 
^        ad  lib. 


Jamie's  words  went  to  my  heart,  "There's  nae  room    for  twa." 
hae   gang'd  my  gate     a  -  Iane,"There's  nac  room    for  twa." 


Dear  Kitty !  on  thy  bonnie  brow, 

The  simmer  sun  shall  shine  ; 
While  wintry  clouds  and  winter's  gloom 

Are  gathering  dark  o'er  mine. 
I'll  gie  to  God  my  lingerin'  hours, 

An'  Jamie  drive  awa,' 
For  in  this  weary,  wasted  heart 

There's  nae  room  for  twa. 


The  creepin'  years  hae  slowly  pass'd, 

An'  I  hae  struggled  strang, 
Wi'  a  broken  hope,  an'  a  broken  heart, 

But  it  is  nae  now  for  lang; 
My  thread  o'  life  is  a'  but  span, 

An'  I  maun  gang  awa', 
An'  moulder  in  the  clay  cauld  ground, 

Where's  nae  room  for  twa. 


THE  WAEFU'   HEART. 

THESE  beautiful  words  were  written  by  SUSANNA  BLAMIRE,  to  a  Scottish  air,  called 
"  The  wae  fu'  Heart." 


1.  Gin      liv  -    ing  worth  could    win       my  heart.  You     would  -  na  speak  in       vain ; . . . . 

2.  Yet,     oh!      gin  Heav'n  in        mer  -    cy  soon  Would   grant   the  boon    I        crave,.... 

3.  "I     come,       I  come,   my        Ja   -   mie  dear,  And,      oh!     wi' what gude  -  will,.... 


..     But 
..    And 
1 


. 


J 


1 


'",      A.e  d?rk-s°me     grave         it's    laid.      Nev   -    er         to    rise          a    -    gam.  My 

this   hfe,     now      nae    -    thing  worth.    Sin'        Ja  -  mie's    in         his       grave.  And 

fol   -  low  whaur  -  so  -    e'er  ye    lead,        Ye        can   -   na   lead         to          ill."  She 


-3TT 


THE    WAEFU'    HEART. 


321 


wae 
see, 
said, 


fu'  heart  lies 
his  gen  -  tie 
and  soon  a 


low  wi'  his  Whose  heart  was  on  -  ly 
spir  -  it  comes  To  show  me  on  my 
dead  -  ly  pale  Her  fad  -  ed  cheek  pos 


mine : . . 
way ! . . 
sess'd ! . 


•  ».  And 

...    Sur- 
..    Her 


oh!    what  a  heart 
-pris'd,  nae  doubt, 
wae  -   fu'  heart 


was     that         to       lose,       But 

I       still       am     here,       Sair 

for  -  got        to       beat,       Her 


I  maun  ne'er  re  -  pine, 
won  -  d'ring  at  my  stay, 
sor  -  row  sunk  to  rest. 


HERE'S  A  HEALTH  TO  ANE  I  LO'E  DEAR. 

THIS  is  one  of  the  last  songs  of  EGBERT  BURNS.  It  was  addressed  to  Miss  Jessie 
Lewars,  of  Dumfries,  who  assisted  in  taking  care  of  him  in  his  last  illness,  and  was  one  of 
his  widow's  best  friends.  Burns  wrote  to  Thomson:  "I  once  mentioned  to  you  an  air 
which  I  have  long  admired,  '  Here's  a  health  to  them  that's  awa',  hiney/  but  I  forget  if  you 
took  any  notice  of  it,  I  have  just  been  trying  to  suit  it  with  verses,  and  I  beg  leave  to  recom- 
mend the  air  to  your  attention  once  more." 


dzzjp^fj: 

jEsEB^Sptzzz: 

Lz&=5_jpzt i 


1.  Here's  a  health    to       ane      I   lo'e 

2.  I      mourn  thro'  the  gay,  gau-dy 

PS 


dear, 
day, 


Here's  a  health     to       ane   I    lo'e  dear ;        Thou  art 
As     hope  -  less  I  mu  so  on  thy  charms ;       But 


i. ' '  i         ^  ~r — 

~^ — *~i~  9 — * — Fi 
»—»—*—! 


sweet     as  the  smile  when  fond  lov  -ers  meet,      And  saf  t      as  their   part  -  ing  tear,        Jes-sie ;    Al  • 
wel  -  come  the  dream   o'     sweet     slum-ber,       For    then   I'mlock'din     thy  arms;     Jes-sie;     I 


3St 


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A22 


OUR  FAMILIAR  SONGS. 


-  tho*   thou  maun  nev-er    be       mine, 
guess    by  the  dear   an -gel      smile: 


Al  -tho'   ev  -     en  hope  is     de  -    nied;-...        'Tis 
I      guess  by       the  love-roll -ing       e'e;....        But  why 


•SN 


sweet  -  er  for     thee    de    -    spair    -      ing,        Than  aught      In  the      world   be  -  side,     Jessie  I 
urge     the  ten  -  der    con  -    fes       -      sion,    'Gainst  for  -  tune's  f  ell,  cru -el  de  -  cree?      Jessie! 


AFTON    WATER. 

THE  following  song  was  written  by  BURNS  in  honor  of  Mrs.  Dugald  Stewart,  the  first 
person  of  high  position  who  noticed  or  encouraged  him.  Mrs.  Stewart  inherited  Afton 
Lodge,  which  was  situated  on  the  bank  of  Sweet  Afton,  a  small  river  in  Ayrshire. 

The  melody  to  which  MR.  J.  E.  SPILMAN  set  these  plaintive  words,  is  so  sweet  and 
so  familiar,  that  I  give  it  in  addition  to  the  more  elaborate  Scottish  air. 


for*  -Jb 

—  I"*"!  «  —--I 

—  .  1  r-n™ 

1.  Flow    gent    -  ly,       sweet 
2.  Thou    stock  -  dove,    whose 

Af  -  ton,         a    -    mang     thy       green       braes,               Flow 
ech  -   o           re  -    sounds  through  the         glen,                 Ye 

-i—            —>  *  1  1  1  1  *  

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AFT  ON    WATER. 


323 


gent  -    ly,          I'll 
wild     whist  •  ling 


Ma    -    ry's         a 
green  -   crest  -    ed 


sleep        by         thy 
lap    -    wing,     thy 


mur  -mur 
scream-ing 


ing 
for 


stream, 
bear, 


Flow 
I 


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y2  —  ^  —   V^_»E  —  i  —  —^  —  i  «*^  —  i  —  i  --^  —  i  —  i*.  —  " 

gent    -    ly,           sweet           Af    •   ton,           dis    -      turb           not       her           dream, 
charge    you,          dis       -      turb       not           my          slum    -     ber    -   ing              fair. 

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QUARTET. 


:?^-Sr 


1.  Flow  gent  -  ly,       sweet     Af  -  ton,      a  -  mang  thy  green  braes;    Flow  gent  -    ly,        I'll 
3.  How  loft    -  ty,       sweet     Af  -  ton,     thy  neighbour  -  ing     hills,       Far  marked  with      the 


Et 


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sing     thee        a 
cours  -  es        of 

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'         '       ^*    - 
song       in       thy 
clear  -  wind  -  ing 

t          J          0 

praise;         My     Ma    -  r 
rills;      There     dai    -  1 

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wan  -  der,        as 

cvtiUJ  —  £  *—        — 

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OUR   FAMILIAR   SONGS. 


mur-mur- ing  stream,    Flow  gent  -  ly,  sweet     Af  -  ton,     dis  -  turb    not    her    dream.  2.  Thou 
mom  ris  -  es      high,       My    flocks  and     my     Ma- ry's  sweet  cot       in     my      eye.     4.  How 


stock  -dove,  whose  ech    -    o  re  -  sounds  from 

pleas  -  ant       thy  banks     and    green   val    -  leys 


hill, 
low, 


Ye        wild    whist-  ling 
WTiere    wild       in         the 


ntitf                   -*-         r"    J        J'lr— 

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black  -  birds       in       yon      thorn  -  y           den,           Thou  green  -  crest   -  ed       lap    -wing,   thy 
wood  -  lands    the      prim  -  ros    -    es        blow  I        There  oft,       as        mild     eve   -  ning    creep* 

/!N                                                                       J""l 

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scream-ing     for  -  bear, 
o  -  yer     the      lea, 


I    charge  you,    dis  -  turb    not     my      slum  -  ber  -  ing       fair. 
The  sweet-scent  -  ed    birk  shades  my       Ma  -  ry     and       me. 


3^£ 


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—  \J! —f. ^  ~    --r  - 


I        I     I 

Thy  crystal  stream,  Afton,  how  lovely  it  glides 
And  winds  by  the  cot  where  my  Mary  resides  ! 
How  wanton  thy  waters  her  snowy  feet  lave, 
As  gathering  sweet  flowerets,  she  stems  thy  clear 
wave! 


Flow  gently,  sweet  Afton,  amang  thy  green  braes, 
Flow  gently,  sweet  river,  the  theme  of  my  lays: 
My  Mary's  asleep  by  thy  murmuring  stream, 
Flow    gently,    sweet    Afton,    disturb     not     her 
dream. 


THE  BRAES  O'   GLENIFFER. 

THIS  song  was  written  by  ROBERT  TANNAHILL,  to  the  air  called  "Bonnie  Dundee," 
which,  it  seeais,  can  be  roared  to  you  like  a  lion,  or  cooed  to  you  as  soft  as  a  sucking  dove. 
The  Braes  were  a  tract  of  country  near  the  poet's  home,  and  they  were  sometimes  known 
as  the  Stanley  Braes.  Robert  Dinsmoor,  who  published  under  the  nom  de  plume  of  "  Rustic 
Bard,"  and  who  was  bora  in  Londonderry,  New  Hampshire,  in  1757,  included  this  song  in  a 
rolume  of  poems,  as  his  own. 


THE    BRAES    0'    GLENIFFER. 


325 


8       |* 


Keen  blaws  the     wind        o'er  the  braes  o'      Glen  -    if    -    fer,     The 


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326 


OUR   FAMILIAR   SONGS. 


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now     it       U       win-ter    wi'      na    -  tureand    me. 


Then  ilk  thing  around  us  was  blithesome  and 

cheerie, 

Then  ilk  thing  around  us  was  bonnie  and  braw ; 
Now  naething  is  heard  but   the  wind  whistling 

drearie, 
And  naething  is  seen  but  the  wide-spreading 

snaw ; 
The  trees  are  a'  bare,  and  the   birds  mute  and 

dowie,  — 
They  shake  the  cauld  drift  frae  their  wings  as 

they  flee ; 
And  chirp  out  their  plaints,  seeming  wae  for  my 

Johnnie, — 
'Tis  winter  wi'  them  and  'tis  winter  wi'  me. 


Yon   cauld,    fleecy  cloud   skiffs   alang  the  bleak 

mountain, 
And  shakes  the  dark  firs  on  the  steep,  rocky 

brae, 
While   down   the    deep   glen   brawls    the    snaw- 

flooded  fountain, 
That  murmured  sae  sweet   to   my  laddie  and 

me; 
It's    na    the    loud    roar,    on    the    wintry    winds 

swellin', 
It's  na  the  cauld  blast  brings  the  tear  to  my 

ee; 

For,  O !  gin  I  saw  but  my  bonnie  Scot's  callan 
The  dark  days  o'  winter  were  simmer  to  me. 


THE  BUSH  ABOON  TRAQUAIR. 

THIS  song  was  written  by  EGBERT  CRAWFORD,  a  Scottish  author  of  considerable  learn- 
ing and  importance,  who  wrote  "  Down  the  Bum,  Davie,  Love."  "  The  Bush  Aboon  Tra- 
quair"  was  first  published  in  Ramsay's  "Tea-Table  Miscellany,"  in  1724,  and  afterward, 
with  the  music,  in  the  "  Orpheus  Caledonius.'1  The  exquisite  opening  melody  in  Boildieu's 
opera  of  "  La  Dame  Blanche,"  is  this  sweet  old  Scottish  air.  It  is  in  remembrance  of  this 
melody  that  Dr.  Moir,  the  "  Delta"  of  Blackwood,  says : 

"  In  realms  beyond  the  separating  sea, 
The  plaided  exile,  'neath  the  evening  star, 
Thinking  of  Scotland,  scarce  forbears  to  weep." 


1.  Hear    me,     ye  nymphs,  and    ev'    -    ry    swain,      I'll  tell    how      Peg    -  gy  grieves       me  ;  Tho' 

2.  That    day    she  smil'd,     and    made    me      glad,     No  maid  made  seeai'd    ev  -  er       kinder  ;  I 


BUSH  ABOON  TBAQUAIE. 


327 


thus     I         Ian   -  gnish     and       com -plain,       A-   las!    she       ne'er     be  -  lieves        me,     My 
thought  my  -  self        the      luck  -   iest      lad,         So     sweet  -  ly      there       to     find          her,      I 


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not  ......      to    blame,     I    meant   not 


first 
to.... 


did  love 
of  -  fend 


her. 


Yet  now  she  scornful  flies  the  plain, 

The  fields  we  then  frequented; 
If  e'er  we  meet  she  shows  disdain, 

She  looks  as  ne'er  acquainted. 
The  bonnie  bush  bloomed  fair  in  May, 

Its  sweets  I'll  aye  remember; 
But  now  her  frowns  make  it  decay, 

It  fades  as  in  December. 


Ye  rural  powers,  who  hear  my  strains, 

Why  thus  should  Peggy  grieve  me  ? 
Oh  !  make  her  partner  in  my  pains, 

Then  let  her  smiles  relieve  me. 
If  not,  my  love  will  turn  despair, 

My  passion  no  more  tender ; 
I'll  leave  the  bush  aboon  Traquair, 

To  lonely  wilds  I'll  wander. 


BARBARA    ALLAN. 

THIS  famous  ballad  is  very  old,  and  is  of  Scottish  origin.  The  peasantry  of  a  part  of 
Scotland  still  sing  more  stanzas  than  have  ever  been  in  print.  The  English,  or  an  English 
version  of  it,  is  called  "Barbara  Allan's  Cruelty;  or  the  Young  Man's  Tragedy."  "Scarlet 
Town"  is  given  as  the  home  of  Barbara,  and  plebeian  Jemmy  Grove  is  substituted  for 
Sir  John  Graham.  I  give  both  versions,  as  the  English  one  is  a  curious  example  of  how 


32b 


OUR   FAMILIAR   SONGS. 


the  gist  of  the  words  may  be  lost  overboard,  as  a  song  floats  down  the  stream  of  time ;  U 
that,  poor  Barbara  appeared  a  monster  indeed,  as  there  is  no  mention  of  the  fact,  that  the 
dying  youth  had  formerly  slighted  her  when  the  healths  went  round. 

Pepys,  in  his  Diary,  under  date  of  January  2,  1665,  speaks  of  Mrs.  Knipp's  (the 
actress's)  singing,  of  "her  little  Scotch  song  of  Barbary  Allan,  at  Lord  Brounker's,"  and  ho 
adds,  that  he  was  "  in  perfect  pleasure  to  hear  her  sing  it."  Goldsmith  recounts  more 
than  once,  his  delight  in  the  ballad.  He  says:  "The  music  of  the  first  singer  is  dissonance, 
to  what  I  felt  when  our  old  dairy-maid  sung  me  into  tears,  with  'Johnny  Armstrong's 
Good  night;'  or,  'The  Cruelty  of  Barbara  Allan.'"  The  song  came  over  to  our  country, 
with  the  early  settlers,  and  Horace  Greeley,  in  his  "Kecollections  of  a  Busy  Life/'  speaks  of 
remembering  to  have  heard  his  mother  sing,  "Barbara  Allan." 

The  air  is  as  old  as  the  words,  and  the  origin  of  both  is  unknown. 

Larghetto. 


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BARBARA    ALLAN. 


329 


It  was  in  and  about  the  Mart'mas  time, 
When  the  green  leaves  were  a  fallin', 

"That  Sir  John  Graham,  in  the  west  countrie, 
Fell  in  love  wi'  Barbara  Allan. 

He  sent  his  man  down  through  the  town, 
To  the  place  where  she  was  dwallin', 

O,  haste  arid  come  to  my  master  dear, 
Gin  ye  be  Barbara  Allan. 

O,  slowly,  slowly  rase  she  up, 
To  the  place  where  he  was  lyin', 

And  when  she  drew  the  curtain  by, 
"  Young  man,  I  think  ye're  dyin'." 

'"  It's  oh,  I'm  sick,  I'm  very,  very  sick, 

And  it's  a'  for  Barbara  Allan ; 
O,  the  better,  for  me  ye'se  never  be 

Though  your  heart's  bluid  were  a-spillin'." 


*'  O,  dinna  ye  mind,  young  man,  she  said, 
When  ye  was  in  the  tavern  a-drinkin', 

The  English  version  is  as  follows : 


That  ye  made  the  healths  gae  round  and  round, 
And  slichtit  Barbara  Allan." 

He  turned  his  face  unto  the  wa, 
And  death  was  with  him  dealin'; 

"  Adieu,  adieu,  my  dear  friends  a', 
And  be  kind  to  Barbara  Allan." 

And  slowly,  slowly,  rase  she  up, 

And  slowly,  slowly  left  him, 
And  sighin',  said,  she  could  not  stay, 

Since  deyth  of  life  had  reft  him. 

She  hadna  gane  a  mile  but  twa, 

When  she  heard  the  deid-bell  ringin', 

And  every  jow  the  deid-bell  gi'ed, 
It  cried,  "  Wae  to  Barbara  Allan." 

"  Oh,  mother,  mother,  mak'  my  bed, 

And  mak'  it  saft  and  narrow; 
Since  my  love  died  for  me  to-day 

I'll  die  for  him  to-morrow." 


In  Scarlet  Town,  where  I  was  born, 

There  was  a  fair  maid  dwellin', 
And  every  youth  cried  well  awa'; 

Her  name  was  Barbara  Allan. 
Her  name  was  Barbara  Allan, 

Her  name  was  Barbara  Allan, 
All  in  the  merry  month  of  May, 

When  green  buds  they  were  swelling, 
Young  Jemmy  Grove  on  his  death-bed  lay, 

For  love  of  Barbara  Allan. 

He  sent  his  man  unto  her  then, 

To  the  town  where  she  did  well  in, 
Saying,  "  You  must  come  to  my  master, 

If  your  name  be  Barbara  Allen; 
For  death  is  printed  on  his  face, 

And  o'er  his  heart  is  stealin', 
Then  haste  away  to  comfort  him, 

O  lovely  Barbara  Allan." 

"  Though  death  be  printed  on  his  face, 

And  o'er  his  heart  be  stealin', 
Yet  little  better  shall  he  be 

For  bonny  Barbara  Allan." 
So  slowly,  slowly  she  came  up, 

And  slowly  she  came  nigh  him, 
And  all  she  said  when  there  she  came, 

"Young  man  I  think  your  dying!  " 

He  turned  his  face  unto  her  straight, 

With  deadly  sorrow  sighing: 
"  Oh !  pretty  maid,  come  pity  me, 

I'm  on  my  death-bed  lying." 
**  If  on  your  death-bed  you  do  lie, 

What  needs  the  tale  your  tellin', 
I  cannot  keep  you  from  your  death;  — 

Farewell ! "  said  Barbara  Allan. 


He  turned  his  face  unto  the  wall, 

And  death  was  with  him  dealin', 
"Adieu,  adieu,  my  friends  all, 

Adieu  to  Barbara  Allan." 
As  she  was  walkin'  o'er  the  fields, 

She  heard  the  bells  a'  knellin', 
And  every  stroke  did  seem  to  say, 

"  Unworthy  Barbara  Allan." 

She  turned  her  body  round  about, 

And  spied  the  corpse  a  coming ; 
"  Lay  down,  lay  down  the  corpse,"  she  said, 

"  That  I  may  look  upon  him." 
With  scornful  eyes  she  looked  down ; 

Her  cheeks  with  laughter  swellin', 
Whilst  all  her  friends  cried  out  amain, 

"  Unworthy  Barbara  Allen." 

When  he  was  dead  and  in  his  grave, 

Her  heart  was  struck  with  sorrow; 
"  O  mother,  mother  make  my  bed, 

For  I  shall  die  to-morrow. 
Hard-hearted  creature,  him  to  slight, 

Why  loved  me  so  dearly, 
O !  that  I'd  been  more   kind  to  him, 

When  he  was  alive  and  near  me." 

She  on  her  death-bed  as  she  lay, 

Begged  to  be  buried  by  him, 
And  sore  repented  of  the  day, 

That  she  did  e'er  deny  him. 
'•  Farewell !  "  she  said,  "  ye  virgins  all 

And  shun  the  fault  I  fell  in ; 
Henceforth  take  warning  by  the  fall 

Of  cruel  Barbara  Allan." 


330 


OUR    FAMILIAR    SONGS. 


SAVOURNEEN    DEELISH. 

Savourneen  dheelish  Eileen  ogue,  "Darling,  dear  young  Ellen,"  is  the  refrain  of  a  song; 
which  is  often  attributed  to  Thomas  Campbell,  but  was  written  by  GEORGE  COLMAN  the 
younger,  and  formed  part  of  his  musical  drama  entitled,  "The  Surrender  of  Calais." 
George  Colman  the  younger,  who,  like  his  father,  was  an  English  comic  dramatist,  was- 
bora  October  21,  1762.  He  became  manager  of  the  Haymarket  Theatre,  and  wrote  more 
farces,  comedies,  etc.,  than  any  modern  dramatist,  but  most  of  them  were  unsuccessful, 
and  none  survive.  After  the  condemnation  of  his  play,  "The  Iron  Chest,"  he  added  to 
his  name,  "the  younger,"  saying,  in  explanation,  "Lest  my  father's  memory  may  be  injured 
by  mistakes,  and  in  the  confusion  of  after-time,  the  translator  of  Terence,  and  the  author 
of  the  'Jealous  Wife/  should  be  supposed  guilty  of  'The  Iron  Chest/  I  shall,  were  I  to 
reach  the  patriarchal  longevity  of  Methuselah,  continue  (in  all  my  dramatic  publications) 
to  subscribe  myself,  George  Colman  the  younger." 

O'Carrol,  a  fine  Irish  singer,  used  to  sing  Colman's  song  to  the  old  melody,  "Savourneen 
Dheelish." 


-H K 


m 


1.  O !    the     mo  -  mcnts  were   Bad    when  my 

2.  When  the  word     of    com  -  mand  put    our 

3.  I  fought     for    my    coun  -  try,  far 


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troops    all     in     mo  -  t  on,  Sa  -  vour  -  neen        dhee   -  lish 

far,    from  my    true    love,  Sa  -  vour  -  neen       dhee   -  lish 


El    -  leen     o-gue;  I 

El    -  leen     0  -  gue;  I 

El    -  leen     o-gue;          My 


kiss'd       >ff   the 

c)asp'«1    on    my 

pay       and  my 


tear,  and  was  nigh  broken  -  heart  -ed,  Sa 
knap  -sack  to  cross  the  wide  o  -  cean.  Sa 
boot  -  y,  I  hoarded  for  you,  love,  Sa 


vour  -  neen  dhee  -  lish 
vour  -  neen  dhee  -  lish 
vour  -  neen  dhee  -  lish 


SAVOURNEEN   DIIEELISH. 


331 


|L-JLJ5  

; — «T-tll*'          0  9  ~~T~*^^: 


El  -  leen 
El  -  leen 
El  -  leen 


ogue;          Wan     was        her    cheek  which     hung      on    my     shoulder;  Damp 

ogue;  Brisk  were  our  troops,  roar  -  ing  like    thun-der,  Pleas'd 

ogue ;         Peace    was       pro  -  claim'd —       I    es  -  cap'd     from  the    slaughter.  Land  - 


^zFf=p-_0_g_i^L=:^Hv:z>q 


r-*- 

was  her          hand,  and    no     mar  -  ble    was   cold  -  er,    I      thought  in    my  soul  that  I  ne'er 

with  their         voy-'age,im  -pa   -  tient  of  plun-der,  Whilst  my  poor  heart  with  grief  was  almost 

ed  at  home,    my  sweet  girl         I  sought  her,  But     sor-row,    a -las  I    to  her  cold 


more  should  be  -  hold  her,  Sa  -  vour  -  neen 
torn  a  -  sun  -  der —  Sa  -  vour  -  neen 
grave  had  brought  her,  Sa  -  Your  -  neen 


dhee  -  lish 
dhee  -  lish 
dhee  -  lish 


El  -  leen  o  -  gue. 
El  -  leen  o  -  gue. 
El  -  leen  o  -  gue. 


LORD   ULLIN'S  DAUGHTER. 

THE  author  of  "Lord  Ullin's  Daughter,"  THOMAS  CAMPBELL,  although  boasting  of  high 
Scottish  ancestry,  might  have  been  an  American,  if  the  Bostonians  had  not  upset  the  tea 
that  was  passed  to  them  without  sugar ;  for  when  the  Eevolution  broke  out,  his  father  was 
a  prosperous  merchant  in  Virginia.  He  returned  with  his  family  to  Glasgow,  where  his  son 
Thomas  was  bora,  in  July,  1777.  The  poet's  life  is  too  well  known  to  need  repetition. 
This  ballad  of  the  Highlands  of  Scotland,  was  one  of  the  every-day  favorites  of  our  grand- 
parents and  great-grandparents. 

The  music  is  by  GEORGE  THOMSON,  the  collector  of  Scottish  melodies.  In  connection 
with  Burns,  he  did  for  Scottish  music  what  Sir  John  Stevenson,  in  connection  with  Thomas 
Tkloore,  did  for  Irish  music.  He  waf  born  in  Fifeshire,  about  1760,  and  died  in  Edinburgh, 
Teb.  16,  1 8.1:3. 


3.V? 


OUR   FAMILIAR    SONGS. 


1.  A      chieF 

2.  "And  fast 
8.  Out  -  spoke 


tain     to 
be-  fore       her 
the     bar    -  dy 


high  -   lands  bound,    Cries, 
fa    -    ther's  men,    Three 
high   -  land    wight,  "I'll 


"Boat  -  man  do  not 
days  we've  fled  to 
go,  my  chief.  I'm 


tar-ry! 
geth-  er. 
read  -  y  ; 


And      I'll      give  thee       a 
For    should  he   find       us 
It        is       not   for      your 


sil  -  ver  pound  To 
in  the  glen,  My 
sil  -  ver  bright,  But 


row     us        o'er     the 
blood  would  stain    the 
for    your     win  -  some 


fer- ry."  "Now    who     be     ye    would     cross  Loughgyle    this       dark    and  storm  -  v 

heather;  His    horse -man  hard    be   -     hind    us      ride,  should    they    our  steps     dis 

la- dy;  And    by       my  word,  the         bon  -  my     bird     in         dan"-   ger  shall      not 


wa-ter?" 
cov-er, 
tar  -ry, 


Oh!     I'm     llie  Chief    of     Ul 

Then    who  will  cheer  my    bon 

So,  though  the  waves  are    rag 


va's  Isle,    And  this    Lord  UI-Hn's    daugh-ter. 
ny  bride,  When  they  have  slain  her     lov    -    er?" 
ing  white,    I'll     row  you     o'er  the      fer   -    ry." 


By  this  the  storm  grew  loud  apace, 

The  water-wraith  was  shrieking, 
And  in  the  scowl  of  Heaven  each  face 

Grew  dark,  as  they  were  speaking; 
But  still,  as  wilder  blew  the  wind, 

And  as  the  night  grew. drearer, 
Adown  the  glen  rode  armed  men, 

Their  trampling  sounded  nearer. 

"  Oh,  haste  thee,  haste ! "  the  lady  cries, 

"Though  tempests  round  us  gather, 
I'll  meet  the  raging  of  the  skies, 

But  not  an  angry  father ! " 
The  boat  has  left  a  stormy  land, 

A  stormy  sea  before  her, 
When,  Oh !  too  strong  for  human  hand, 

The  tempest  gathered  o'er  her. 


And  still  they  rowed  amidst  the  roar  • 

Of  waters  fast  prevailing, 
Lord  Ullin  reached  that  fatal  shore, 

His  wrath  was  changed  to  wailing. 
For  sore  dismayed,  through  storm  and  shadt 

His  child  he  did  discover, 
One  lovely  hand  she  stretched  for  aid, 

And  one  was  round  her  lover. 

"  Come  back,  come  back  ! "  he  cried  in  grief, 

"Across  this  raging  water, 
And  I'll  forgive  your  highland  chief, 

My  daughter!  Oh,  my  daughter!" 
'Twas  vain,  the  loud  waves  lashed  the  shore,. 

Return  or  aid  preventing, 
The  waters  wild  went  o'er  his  child, 

And  he  was  left  lamenting! 


KATHLEEN  MAVOURSEEN. 


KATHLEEN    MAVOURNEEN. 


333 


THE  words  of  this  song  are  by  ANNIE  (BARRY)  CRAWFORD,  an  English  actress,  who 
was  born  in  Bath  in  1731,  and  died  in  1801.  The  air  is  by  F.  W.  NICHOLLS  CROUCH, 
born  in  England,  about  1800.  In  1817,  he  was  violincellist  in  King's  Theatre,  London. 
Afterward  he  taught  music  at  Plymouth,  where  he  composed  this  song,  for  the  copy- 
right of  which  he  received  £5.  He  came  to  the  United  States  with  an  Italian  opera 
troupe  in  1848,  and  settled  in  Portland,  Maine.  There  he  made  many  friends,  and  became 
the  instructor  of  some  of  the  best  singers.  He  was  something  of  a  naturalist,  and  orna- 
mented his  rooms  with  cages  of  live  snakes.  He  was  a  sportsman  also,  and  his  game  din- 
ners and  his  wife's  matinees  were  equally  celebrated.  He  brought  out  Locke's  music  to 
"  Macbeth,"  and  gave  concerts  with  Arthurson,  Frazier,  and  others.  There  is  an  answer 
to  "Kathleen  Mavouraeen,"  entitled  "Dermot  Asthore"  —  the  music  by  Crouch,  and  the 
words  by  his  friend,  Desmond  Eyan. 

Crouch  set  to  music  a  song  written  by  Augustine  J.  H.  Duganne,  entitled  "Her  I  Love," 
and  was  foolish  enough  to  claim  the  authorship  of  the  words  also.  He  called  it  "  a  madri- 
gal, after  the  style  of  the  sixteenth  century,"  and  affected  the  ancient  spelling.  The  first 
stanza  ran  as  follows  : 

I  knowe  a  lyttle  hande  ; 
'Tys  ye  softest  yn  ye  lande, 
And  I  feel  yts  pressure  blande, 

"Whyle  I  synge  ; 

Lylie  whyte  and  restynge  nowe 
Lyke  a  rose-leafe  on  my  browe, 
As  a  dove  myght  f  anne  my  browe 

Wythe  yts  wynge. 
Welle  I  prize  all  handes  above, 
Thys  deare  hande  of  herre  I  love. 

The  song  was  brought  out  by  Arthurson,  and  became  somewhat  famous. 

Crouch  was  utterly  improvident.  He  was  very  free  with  his  money  whenever  he  had 
it,  and  consequently  seldom  had  any.  It  is  said  that  he  once  assisted  a  needy  Italian  in 
giving  a  concert,  and  finding  that  the  receipts  were  rather  meagre,  amended  the  deficiency 
somewhat  by  casting  in  his  last  ten-dollar  bill.  From  Portland  he  went  to  Philadelphia, 
where  he  established  a  sort  of  musical  association.  Just  before  the  war  he  was  teaching 
music  in  Washington,  and  he  is  said  to  have  died  in  Baltimore  during  the  war,  —  but  as 
to  this,  there  seems  to  be  some  doubt. 

When  Mile.  Titiens  sang  in  New  York,  she  gave  "  Kathleen  Mavourneen,"  in  response 
to  an  encore.  Thereupon,  a  fellow,  who  in  all  probability  was  an  impostor,  made  his  way 
to  the  stage,  introduced  himself  as  Crouch  the  composer,  and  with  plentiful  tears  gave  her 
his  thanks  for  rendering  the  song  so  finely. 


£853  —  l         -:*«= 

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p                                      —  ^  —  —     i^     ix 

a  -  vour           -    neen  '  the  grey              dawn    is    break 

-  in"1  ..               The 

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(PiS=SE 


334 


OUR  FAMILIAR  SONGS. 


horn 


& 


of     the     hun  -    ter  is  heard on    the      hill, 


The 


I  —  i  —  i  —  ' 


I3fc 


"-^ 


lark,  from  her    light  wing,  The  bright dew    is       shak 


ing, 


***     *     * 


--* — -*--• — 


::z^i 


Kath-leen Ma  -  vour  -  neen ! what!  slum    -       b'ring  still? 


****     * 


•i*- 


Oh    hast  thou  for  • 


•&=—=££& 


_**r 

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ispress  e  legato. 


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r       r 


KATHLEEN  MAVOURNEEN. 


335 


mf 


-*— - 


^ST.. 


— * — ^ 
-    got  -ten  how  soon  we  must        sev-er?  Oh,  hast  tbou   for  - 


-==£=-- 


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h* -*•  -a-  —t-  -S^—t-      •*•-*••*• 
^^  -r  ^  •*•      j*-        ^V 


tir 


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•9-  -t  *-±      •»  -t  •*  -t  •* 


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^T*~I 


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•*-. 


-    got -ten,       this         day, 


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^-t? — — -E: 


p  _ 


may     be          for  -  ev  -  er,        Oh,       why          art  thou       si  -   lent,     thou  voice     of          my 


heart?  It  may be      for     years,    and  it       may   be  for  - 


-    ev-er,  Then  why art  thou      si    -    lent,    Kath  -  leen       Ma- vour  -  neen? 


336 


OUR  FAMILIAR  SONGS- 
mf 


izEE? 


'       * 


Kath  -     leen  Ma-  vour  -    neen!  A-  wake  from  thy    slum-bars, The 


-0 0- 


:gi=" 


blue  mountains  glow  in "...        the      sun's  gold -en      light;  Ah! 


—  7— y— jzzp — r-^     if— _—-T— -^       j     i        ; 

.«— f—  * 1 — J-- -• — 0—0 —-»—*• • — * — ••  -« — • ' 

f  Tt   Z    Jt  ~<  T    -r    f    i    TT 


1 


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tflf"~ 


where  Is     the     spell  that  once  hung      on  my     numbers,  A  - 


in    thy     beau-ty,  thou  star       of  my  night, 


A  - 


2=£;  E3-  3=1 


§1         H 


-^ 


rise 


in    thy    beau-ty,  thou  star of        my    night. 


tempo. 


2- 


KATHLEEN  MAVOURNEEN.  337 

mf  con  arnore  affetto. 


rrrri 


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Ma  -  vour        -       neen,  Ma- 


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vouraeen,  my  sad       tears  are       fall  -ing,  To  think 


-»— ^ 

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-y  ir  -^ 


E       -   rin  and       thee         I       must         part;  It     may  be    for    years,       and     it 

— _ > — i-    |   i   i   i  iii—|— p— |   i   i   i 


i — i — T'  - i — i 

-I— « — -J— 1-» — 3—0 — 


:n— 
:C= 


sempie  legato. 


•tf 


may     be  for  -  ev  -  er,       Then      why  art  thou       si  -   lent,     thou  voice     of  my 


!:^»-4; 


5^? 


:g=z-bj — rgi1qFi=i=F^c=±^d=d 
•5-  =1    FJTS^    *i*5»3 


(22) 


339 


OUR    FAMILIAR   SONGS. 
Sempli.  mfi ^T        *»/ 


heart? 


It  may . 


be      for      years,    and  it       may   be  for  - 


kj.  J.       =3 

pl-i  1 

p=£ 

?  —  <&Tf  : 

&>•                                

--  «*       • 

-    ev  -  er, 


Then  why. 


art  thou       si    -    lent,    Kath  -  leen        Ma-vour  -  neen? 
rail  dim.  p 


J   *.    i   1    - 


JEANNETTE    AND  JEANNOT. 

THIS  thoroughly  Frenchy  little  song  is  the  production  of  two  Englishmen.  CHARLES 
JEFFERYS,  who  wrote  the  words,  was  born  January  11,  1807,  and  died  in  London,  June  9, 
1865.  In  early  life,  he  was  clerk  and  book-keeper  in  a  wine-merchant's  office,  but  in  1835 
he  established  a  music-publishing  business,  which  his  sons  still  carry  on.  He  wrote  a  great 
number  of  songs  and  lyrics,  and  was  prominent  in  English  musical  affairs  for  a  quarter  of 
a  century.  He  says  in  a  memorandum,  "  The  first  guinea  (literally  a  guinea,  which  I  sold 
for  nineteen  and  sixpence),  was  paid  me  for  '  Life  is  a  Eiver/  in  1831." 

"  Jeannette  and  Jeannot"  was  suggested  by  a  little  bronze  group,  which  Mr.  Jefferys 
afterward  purchased,  and  which  is  still  in  the  possession  of  the  family.  The  English  copies 
of  the  song  bear  on  the  title-page  an  engraving  representing  this  group. 

CHARLES  W.  GLOVER,  who  set  these  words  to  music,  was  a  brother  of  Stephen  Glover. 
He  was  a  pupil  of  Thomas  Cooke,  a  violin-player  at  Drury  Lane,  and  finally  musical  direc- 
tor of  the  Queen's  Theatre.  He  was  known  in  connection  with  much  excellent  musical 
work,  writing  the  words  of  a  few,  and  the  notes  of  innumerable  songs.  He  was  born 
in  1807,  and  died  in  London,  March,  1863,  being  precisely  contemporary  with  his  friend  and 
co-laborer,  Jefferys. 

Moderate. 


yf%  2  K  ^ 

^ 

•  —  N  

^  

IS  

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i-N 

«   • 

r*  

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1.   You  are 
2.    Or  when 

go  -  ing      far          a  -  way, 
glo  -  ry     leads       the  way, 

1  fc;  — 

Far      a  - 
You'll   be 

_f  ^   •      *  ?  !  5!  ^_ 
I__Z  y  1  

way  from  poor  Jeannette,         There  is 
mad  -  ly    rush  -  ing      on,           Nev  -  er 

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JEANNETTE    AND    JEANNOT. 


£ 


O ^  rf iJ 1 

no      one     left        to      love     me    now,     And     you     too     may       for  -  get ; 
think  -  ing       if       they     kill     you    That      my      hap  -  pi  -  nejss        is      gone : 


but     my 
If      yon 


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Zf          •  •         m      *        m 

i 

—  r-=^ 

-ft— 

s  —  to 

—  t  =i  —          —  f~\ 

g>     C      g   g  -S==E= 

heart        will    be     with    you, 
win         the  day,    per  -  haps, 

U  =,=,  1  —  _ 

Wher 
A 

"1  

-^  P  ^  «- 

-     ev  -    er      you    may 
gen  -  er  -   al     you'll 

go,                   Can       you 
be,                   Tho'      I'm 

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that       What  will     be    - 

me  ?                  Oh  !        if 

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wear    the  jack-  et      red, 
I  were  Queen  of  France, 

^—j^-H-^^F^ 

L_J__y_  ,_^_^^«L_T  —  m  — 

And  the    beau  -  ti-  ful  cock  -  ade, 
Or,  Btill     bet  -  ter,  Pope  of   Eome, 

—  t^  —  E  —  b  —  9  —  0  —  +- 

Oh,    I      fear  you  will  for- 
I  would  have  no  fight-ing 

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S" 

340 


OUR    FAMILIAR    SONGS. 


f  "        \ 

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^         -get;      All      the    prom-is  -   es        you  made;    With  the     guu      up-  on  your  shoulder,  And  the 
men  a-broad,   No    weeping  maids     at    home  ;      AH     the  world  should  bo    at       peace,     Or      if 

-&-£  1  —                   —  i  —                  —  i  —  P^  3  —  I  —  ^^  —  3 

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,  ,  —  N  , 
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^r                                    V            V                      *                   -  *     V 
bav'  -  net  by  your    side,       You'll  be      tak  -  ing  some  proud  la  -  dy,  And  be 
kings  must  show  their  might,     Why  let    them  who  make  the    quar-rels    Be   the 

^  J  *  •  y- 

mak-  ing   her    your 
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bride;      You'll    be       tak-  ing    some  proud     la  -   dy,    And      be     mak-  ing    her     your  bride, 
fight;        Yes,     let     them  who  make   the    quar-rels     Be      the       on   -   ly     men      to     fight. 
n  *»                                                       .                                                                                              /TS                  /?v 

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:1^  4-    '4.  .4    -"t-"1 

THE  BRIDAL  OF    ANDALLA. 

CONTEMPORARY  literature  has  left  us  no  pleasant  picture  of  JOHN  GIBSON  LOCKHART,  the 
handsome  and  brilliant  son-in-law  of  Sir  Walter  Scott.  His  pale,  olive  complexion,  thinf 
curling  lips,  and  supercilious  manner,  contrast  strongly  with  the  great-hearted,  genial  Sir 
Walter,  and  seem  to  ally  him  to  the  proud  country  whose  ballads  he  gave  us  in  some  of 
the  most  spirited  translations  ever  made.  Lockhart  was  born  in  the  manse  of  Cambus- 
nethan,  Scotland,  where  his  father  was  minister,  on  the  14th  of  July,  1794,  and  died  at 
Abbotsford,  on  the  25th  of  November,  1854.  His  Spanish  ballad,  "  The  Bridal  of  Andalla," 
was  set  to  music  by  MRS.  ARKWRIGHT,  the  sister  of  Mrs.  Hemans. 


?  BRIDAL    OF  ANDALLA. 


341 


-4 


w r; j^ 


1.  Rise     up,     rise  up,        Xa  -   ri 

2.  A    -  rise,       a  -  rise,      Xa  -   ri 


fa, 
fa, 


Lay      your  golden       cush-ion    down;  Rise 
I       see An       -      dal  -  la's    face ;     He 


— -\ — 2 -^^t  :d — 3 =i '<- 


d 


s=3q= 
S=EE 


=i=^z=^-    Ejl_i_j 5=^ 

— 1— ^TT * •  •       +-  9  ^^ 


up,  come      to    the       win       -    dow ;    And  gaze      with  all      the        town ;  From 

bends  him     to    the       peo       -     pie,     With  a       calm      and  prince-ly         grace ;  Thro' 


' 


£ 


3— *• 


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^5^g^J_=l*E 


=*: 

— t: 


— >- 


gay        gui  -tar     and      vi     -    o    -  lin.    The        sil  -  ver   notes    are        flow  -ing; 
all        the    land     of      Xe    -  ras,      And  banks  of     Gua  -  dal    -  quiv  -  er, 


tfe 


And  the 
Rode 


4=r=: 


love  -  ly       lute   doth    speak    be-tween   The    trum-pets     lord  -  ly       blow -ing; 
forth  bridegroom  so      brave     as       he,     So      brave    and      love  -  ly,       uev   -  er : 


And 
Yon 


1^ 


ban  -  ners  bright  from     lat  -   tice       light,    Are     wav  -  ing     ev*  -   ry  -  where, 
tall  plume  wav  -  ing       o'er      his       brow,    Of          a  -  zure  mix'd  with  white, 


_? *— 

And  the 
I 


lllEBE^ 


342 


OUR  FAMILIAR  SONGS. 


tall     tall  plume   Of    the    gay  bridegroom.  Floats  proud   -  ly       in        the         air.  Rise 

guess 'twas  wreath'dby  Za       -       ra,  Whom      he       will    wed       to    -    night.  Rise 


up,  come      to    the       win       -     dow;     And       gaze       with  all         the         town: 


3=n 


"  Rise  up,  rise  up,  Xarifa, 

Lay  your  golden  cushion  down ; 
Rise  up,  come  to  the  window, 

And  gaze  with  all  the  town. 
From  gay  guitar  and  violin, 

The  silver  notes  are  flowing ; 
And  the  lovely  lute  doth  speak  between, 

The  trumpet's  lordly  blowing ; 
And  banners  bright  from  lattice  light, 

Are  waving  everywhere, 
And  the  tall,  tall  plume  of  the  gay  bridegroom, 

Floats  proudly  in  the  air. 
Rise  up,  rise  up,  Xarifa, 

Lay  your  golden  cushion  down, 
Rise  up,  come  to  the  window, 

And  gaze  with  all  the  town. 


"  Arise,  arise,  Xarifa ! 

I  see  Andalla's  face  ; 
He  bends  him  to  the  people, 

With  a  calm  and  princely  grace ; 
Through  all  the  land  of  Xeres, 

And  banks  of  Guadalquivir, 
Rode  forth  bridegroom  so  brave  as  he, 

So  brave  and  lovely,  never. 
Yon  tall  plume  waving  o'er  his  brow, 

Of  azure  mixed  with  white, 
I  guess  'twas  wreathed  by  Zara, 

Whom  he  will  wed  to-night. 
Rise  up,  rise  up,  Xarifa, 

Lay  your  golden  cushion  down, 
Rise  up,  come  to  the  window, 

And  gaze  with  all  the  town." 


THE   BRIDAL    OF   ANT) ALT,*. 


343 


"  What  aileth  thee,  Xarifa  ? 

What  makes  thine  eyes  look  down  ? 
Why  stay  ye  from  the  window,  far, 

Nor  gaze  with  all  the  town  ? 
I've  heard  you  say,  on  many  a  day, 

And  sure  you  said  the  truth, 
Andalla  rides  without  a  peer, 

'Mong  all  Granada's  youth; 
Without  a  peer  he  rideth, 

And  yon  milk-white  horse  doth  go 
Beneath  his  stately  master, 

With  a  stately  step  and  slow  :— 
Then  rise  —  oh,  rise  !  Xarifa, 

Lay  the  golden  cushion  down ; 
Unseen  here  through  the  lattice, 

You  may  gaze  with  all  the  town." 

The  Zegri  lady  rose  not, 

Nor  laid  her  golden  cushion  down, 
Nor  came  she  to  the  window, 

To  gaze  with  all  the  town ; 
And  though  her  eyes  dwelt  on  her  knee, 

In  vain  her  fingers  strove, 
And  though  her  needle  pierced  the  silk, 

No  flower  Xarifa  wove. 


One  lovely  rosebud  she  had  traced, 

Before  the  noise  grew  nigh, 
That  rosebud  now  a  tear  effaced, 

Slow  dropping  from  her  eye. 
"  No,  no  ! "  she  cries,  "  bid  me  not  rise, 

Nor  lay  my  golden  cushion  down, 
To  gaze  upon  Andalla, 

With  all  the  gazing  town." 

"Why  rise  ye  not,  Xarifa  — 

Nor  lay  your  cushion  down, 
Why  gaze  ye  not,  Xarifa  — 

With  all  the  gazing  town? 
Hark  !  hear  the  trumpets  how  they  swell, 

And  how  the  people  crv! 
He  stops  at  Zara's  palace  gate ! 

Why  sit  you  still,  Oh  why  ?  " 
"  At  Zara's  gate,  stops  Zara's  mate, 

In  him  shall  I  discover, 
The  dark-eyed  youth  who  pledged  his  troth, 

With  tears,  and  was  my  lover. 
I  will  not  rise,  with  weary  eyes, 

Nor  lay  my  golden  cushion  down; 
To  gaze  on  false  Andalla, 

With  all  the  gazing  town." 


BONNIE   BOON. 

IN  a  letter  to  Mr.  Thomson,  BURNS  says:  " There  is  an  air  called  'The  Caledonian 
Hunt's  Delight/  to  which  I  wrote  a  song  that  you  will  find  in  Johnson.  '  Ye  banks  and 
braes  0'  bonnie  Boon/  niight,  I  think,  find  a  place  among  your  hundred,  as  Lear  says  of 
his  nights.  Do  you  know  the  history  of  the  air  ?  It  is  curious  enough.  A  good  many 
years  ago,  Mr.  James  Miller,  writer,  in  your  good  town,  was  in  company  with  our  friend, 
Clarke ;  and,  talking  of  Scottish  music,  Miller  expressed  an  ardent  ambition  to  be  able  to 
compose  a  Scots  air.  Mr.  Clarke,  partly  by  way  of  joke,  told  him  to  keep  to  the  black 
keys  of  the  harpsichord,  and  preserve  some  sort  of  rhythm,  and  he  would  infallibly  com- 
pose a  Scots  air.  Certain  it  is,  that  in  a  few  days,  Mr.  Miller  produced  the  rudiments  of 
an  air  which  Mr.  Clarke,  with  some  touches  and  corrections,  fashioned  into  the  tune  in 
question.  Eitson,  you  know,  has  the  same  story  of  the  black  keys;  but  this  account  I  have 
just  given  you,  Mr.  Clarke  informed  me  of  several  years  ago.  Now,  to  show  you  how  diffi- 
cult it  is  to  trace  the  origin  of  our  airs,  I  have  heard  it  repeatedly  asserted  that  this  was  an 
Irish  air ;  nay,  I  met  with  an  Irish  gentleman  who  affirmed  that  he  had  heard  it  in  Ireland, 
among  the  old  women;  while,  on  the  other  hand,  a  countess  informed  me  that  the  first 
person  who  introduced  the  air  into  this  country,  was  a  baronet's  lady  of  her  acquaintance, 
who  took  down  the  notes  from  an  itinerant  piper,  in  the  Isle  of  Man.  How  difficult,  then, 
to  ascertain  the  truth  respecting  our  poesy  and  music ! " 

The  Emperor  Napoleon,  perhaps,  could  not  be  expected  to  appreciate  English  music ; 
but  it  is  rather  amusing  to  read,  that  when  on  the  island  of  St.  Helena,  he  said  one  day  to 
a  lady  with  whom  he  was  conversing,  "  The  music  of  England  is  execrable !  They  have 
only  one  good  melody — 'Ye  Banks  and  Braes  0'  Bonnie  Doon."' 


344 


OUX  FAMILIAE   SONGS. 


Here   are  some  stanzas  which  were  found  among  Burns'  papers,  after  his  death- 
They  are  evidently  the  first  form  of  "  Bonnie  Boon" : 


Ye  flowery  banks  o'  bonnie  Doon, 

How  can  ye  bloom  sae  fair? 
How  can  ye  chant,  ye  little  birds, 

And  I  sae  fu'  o'  care? 

Thou'lt  break  my  heart,  thou  bonnie  bird, 

That  sings  upon  the  bough  ; 
Thou  mindst  me  o'  the  happy  days 

When  my  fause  love  was  true. 

Thou'lt  break  my  heart,  thou  bonnie  bird, 
That  sings  beside  thy  mate ; 


For  sae  I  sat,  and  sae  I  sang, 
And  wist  nae  o'  my  fate. 

Aft  hae  I  roved  by  bonnie  Doon, 
To  see  the  woodbine  twine; 

And  ilka  bird  sang  o'  its  love, 
And  sae  did  I  o'  mine. 

Wi'  lightsome  heart  I  pu'd  a  rose, 
Frae  aff  its  thorny  tree ; 

And  my  fause  lover  staw  the  rose, 
But  left  the  thorn  wi'  me. 


The  heroine  of  "Bonnie  Boon"  was  Miss  Kennedy,  of  Dalgarrock,  whose  false  lover 
was  one  M'Dougal,  of  Logan. 


Andante. 


£ 


^ 


1.  Ye    banks  and    braes    o'        bon-nie  Doon, How      can     ye   bloom  sae      fresh  and  fair?  How 

2.  Oft     hae        I      rov'd  by        bon-nie  Doon,   To        see     the     rose  and     woodbine  twine  ;Whcn 


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can     ye    chaunt,    ye          lit  -   tie     birds,  And       I        sae     wea-  ry,         fu'      of  care?  Thou' 
il   -  ka      bird      sang        o»        its     love,  And     fond  -   ly       sae     did  I        o'  mine.    Wi' 


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break   my     heart,  thou  warb-  ling    bird,  That      wan-  tons  through  the      flow'  -    ry  thorn,  Thou 
some    heart     I       pu'd     a       rose,   Fu'      sweet    up-  on       its      thorn    -    y    tree;  But 


BONNIE    DO  ON. 


345 


mindst  me        o'         de    -    part  -  ed      joys,    De  -    part  -  ed       nev  -  er  to         re  -  turn, 

my    faune    lov    -    er         stole    my     rose,  And,      ah  I     he       left     the       thorn     wi'      me. 


atz: 


BOUNDING  BILLOWS,   CEASE  YOUR   MOTION. 

THE  story  of  the  authoress  of  the  following  song,  is  one  of  the  saddest  and  most 
romantic  of  all  the  o'er-true  tales. 

Mary  Derby,  the  daughter  of  an  American  sea-captain,  was  born  in  Bristol,  England, 
in  1758.  As  a  child  (an  only  one),  she  was  surpassingly  beautiful  and  bright,  and  the 
utmost  care  was  bestowed  upon  her  education  and  accomplishments.  Her  home  stood 
next  to  the  Cathedral,  and,  when  very  young,  she  crept  into  the  dim  and  solemn  aisles,  to 
dream  and  write  little  melancholy  poems.  Her  mates,  in  a  school  kept  by  two  sisters  of 
Hannah  More,  were  the  future  Mrs.  John  Kemble  and  a  daughter  of  Mrs.  Pritchard,  the 
great  actress.  At  this  time,  she  says :  "My  clothes  were  sent  for  from  London;  my  fancy 
was  indulged  to  the  extent  of  its  caprices;  I  was  flattered  and  praised  into  a  belief  that 
J  was  a  being  of  a  superior  order.  To  sing,  to  play  a  lesson  on  the  harpsichord,  to  recite 
an  elegy,  and  to  make  doggerel  verses,  made  the  extent  of  my  occupations."  Her  father 
lost  all  his  money  in  speculation,  and,  while  he  was  at  sea,  Mrs.  Derby  removed  to  London, 
and  opened  a  small  school.  The  husband  suddenly  re-appeared,  broke  up  the  school, 
which  he  was  pleased  to  term  a  degradation  of  his  name,  and  left  again,  without  doing 
anything  to  support  his  family.  Garrick  saw  the  young  girl,  and  was  so  delighted  with 
her  beauty  and  histrionic  gifts,  that  he  wanted  her  to  play  Cordelia,  in  "Lear."  Mrs. 
Derby  was  horrified,  and,  just  at  this  time,  a  young  lawyer,  named  Eobinson,  found  access 
to  the  house,  and  paid  suit  to  Miss  Mary.  He  brought  tracts  to  the  mother,  and  trinkets 
to  the  daughter.  The  mother  urged  her  child's  union  to  a  youth  so  pious  and  wealthy, 
and  when  she  was  but  fifteen  years  old,  forced  her  into  a  marriage.  Mary  says :  "  My 
heart,  even  when  I  knelt  at  the  altar,  was  as  free  from  any  tender  impression,  as  it  had 
been  at  the  moment  of  my  birth."  Mr.  Eobinson  wished  the  marriage  kept  secret  from 
his  family,  but  Mrs.  Derby  would  not  consent,  and  the  pair  were  sent  into  Wales  to  visit 
them.  A  terrible  visit  it  proved  to  the  poor  bride.  She  found  that  her  husband  was 
an  illegitimate  child,  and  the  family  had  turned  him  off.  They  returned  to  London,  where 
the  husband  added  dissipation  to  meanness,  and  soon  their  home  was  sold  for  debt,  and  Mr. 
Kobinson  was  thrown  into  prison.  Mary  took  up  her  abode  there  with  him,  bringing  her 
infant  daughter.  Courtly  lovers  had  never  forgotten  the  beauty  of  the  young  bride,  and 
in  her  distress  she  was  sought  and  sued;  but,  she  says:  "During  nine  months  and  three 
weeks,  never  once  did  I  pass  the  threshold  of  our  dreary  habitation,  though  every  effort  was 
made  to  draw  me  from  my  scene  of  domestic  attachment."  Among  her  admirers,  came 
the  actors,  and  now  the  idea  of  going  upon  the  stage  for  a  livelihood  presented  itself. 
She  appeared  as  Juliet,  and  "the  beautiful  Mrs.  Eobinson"  became  tbe  rage.  She  had. 


346  OUK   FAMILIAR    SONGS. 

performed  two  seasons,  with  great  success,  when  the  king  and  queen  summoned  her  to 
play  for  them,  Perdita,  in  the  "Winter's  Tale."  As  she  appeared  in  the  greenroom,  there 
was  a  burst  of  admiration  among  the  players,  and  the  marked  attention  of  the  Prince  of 
Wales,  afterward  George  IV.,  then  "  the  first  gentleman  in  Europe,"  confused  and  troubled 
her.  From  that  time,  the  prince  pursued  her  with  daily  letters,  and  every  form  of  flattery; 
but  for  months  she  refused  to  see  him,  and  worked  on  to  support  a  husband  whose 
ill-treatment  of  her  stood  out  in  painful  relief  where  everybody  else  was  kind.  At  last 
came  a  minature  of  the  prince,  with  the  motto,  Je  ne  change  qu'en  mourant,  and  she  met 
him,  only  to  love  him  with  all  the  strength  of  her  deep,  but  untrained  nature.  One  more 
dark  spot,  on  a  character  that  has  little  relief  of  brightness,  is  seen  in  the  prince's  treat- 
ment of  "Perdita."  In  the  midst  of  lavish  words  of  tenderness,  came  his  "We  meet  no 
more;"  and  she  is  left  to  brave  the  hatred  of  the  people,  and  actual  want,  without  a  sign 
from  him. 

Here  is  her  own  account  of  some  of  her  experiences  on  the  stage :  "  The  greenroom 
and  orchestra  (where  Mr.  Garrick  sat  during'  the  night)  were  thronged  with  critics. 
When  I  approached  the  side- wing  my  head  throbbed  convulsively ;  I  then  began  to  feel  my 
resolution  would  fail,  and  I  leaned  upon  the  nurse's  arm,  almost  fainting.  Mr.  Sheridan 
and  several  other  friends  encouraged  me  to  proceed ;  and  at  length,  with  trembling  limbs 
and  fearful  apprehension,  I  approached  the  audience.  The  thundering  applause  that 
greeted  me,  nearly  overpowered  all  my  faculties ;  I  stood  mute  and  bending  with  alarm, 
which  did  not  subside  till  I  had  feebly  articulated  the  few  sentences  of  the  first  short 
scene,  during  the  whole  of  which  I  had  never  once  ventured  to  look  at  the  audience.  The 
second  scene  being  the  masquerade,  I  had  tune  to  collect  myself.  I  never  shall  forget  the 
sensation  which  rushed  through  my  bosom,  when  I  first  looked  toward  the  pit.  I  beheld 
a  gradual  ascent  of  heads ;  all  eyes  were  fixed  on  me ;  and  the  sensation  they  conveyed 
was  awfully  impressive ;  but  the  keen  and  penetrating  eyes  of  Mr.  Garrick,  darting  their 
lustre  from  the  centre  of  the  orchestra,  were  beyond  all  others  the  objects  most  conspicu- 
ous. As  I  acquired  courage,  I  found  the  applause  augment,  and  the  night  was  con- 
cluded with  peals  of  clamorous  approbation.  *  *  *  The  second  character  which  I  played 
was  Amanda  in  'A  Trip  to  Scarborough.'  The  play  was  based  upon  Yanbrugh's  'Relapse/ 
and  the  audience  supposing  it  was  a  new  piece,  on  finding  themselves  deceived,  expressed 
a  considerable  degree  of  disapprobation.  I  was  terrified  beyond  imagination,  when  Mrs. 
Yates,  no  longer  able  to  bear  the  hissing  of  the  audience,  quitted  the  scene  and  left  me 
alone  to  encounter  the  critic  tempest.  I  stood  for  some  moments  as  though  I  had  been 
petrified.  Mr.  Sheridan,  from  the  side-wing,  desired  me  not  to  quit  the  boards ;  the  late 
Duke  of  Cumberland,  from  the  side-box,  bade  me  take  courage — 'It  is  not  you  but  the 
play,  they  hiss/  said  his  Royal  Highness.  I  curtsied,  and  that  curtsey  seemed  to  electrify 
the  whole  house,  for  a  thundering  peal  of  encouraging  applause  followed ;  the  comedy  was. 
suffered  to  go  on,  and  is  to  this  hour  a  stock  play  at  Drury-Lane  Theatre." 

At  the  age  of  twenty-four,  while  travelling  abroad,  she  went  to  sleep  in  her  carriage, 
with  the  windows  open,  and  the  result  was  a  violent  cold,  rheumatism,  and  a  complete 
paralysis  of  her  limbs.  A  woman,  writing  some  time  after,  gives  this  remembrance  of  a 
glimpse  of  her :  "  On  a  table,  in  one  of  the  waiting-rooms  of  the  opera-house,  was  seated  a 
woman  of  fashionable  appearance,  still  beautiful,  but  not  in  the  bloom  of  beauty's  pride. 
She  was  not  noticed,  save  by  the  eye  of  pity.  In  a  few  moments  two  liveried  servants 
came  to  her,  and  took  from  their  pockets  long,  white  sleeves,  which  they  drew  on  their 
arms;  they  then  luted  her  up  and  conveyed  her  to  her  carriage— it  was  the  then  helpless 
paralytic,  'Perdita,'" 

She  wrote  novels  and  poetry,  which  she  published  under  the  pseudonym  of  "  Perdita." 
.Neglected  by  aU  her  noble  friends,  after  years  of  suffering,  she  died  in  1799. 


BOUNDING  JULLOWS,  CEASE  YOUR  MOTION. 

I  I  I  II  «*i    /r\ 


347 


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Love  with  proud  re 
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Yet  believe  no  servile  passion, 
Seeks  to  charm  thy  vagrant  mind; 

Well  I  know  thy  inclination, 
Wavering  as  the  passing  wind. 

Far  I  go,  where  fate  may  lead  me ; 

Far  across  the  troubled  deep, 
Where  no  strangers  e'er  can  heed  me, 

Where  no  eye  for  me  shall  weep. 


Not  one  sigh  shall  tell  my  story ; 

Not  one  tear  my  cheek  shall  stain, 
Silent  grief  shall  be  my  glory  — 

Grief  that  stoops  not  to  complain.        .  , 

When  with  thee,  what  ill  could  harm  me? 

Thou  couldst  every  pang  assuage  ; 
But,  when  absent,  nought  could  charm  me — 

Every  moment  seemed  an  age. 


ROLL  ON,   SILVER   MOON. 

ONE  of  the  most  familiar  of  all  familiar  songs,  is  the  plaintive  little  one  which  follows. 
It  is  of  English  origin,  and,  while  both  words  and  air  are  old,  the  former,  except  in  a  few 
lines,  are  very  ancient.  But  we  really  owe  the  song  to  an  American,  JOSEPH  W.  TURNER, 
of  Boston;  for  the  words  had  never  been  set  to,  or  associated  with  the  melody  until,  about 
1842,  he  united  them,  and  adapted  them  to  the  voice  and  the  piano-forte.  So  that,  earlier 
than  that,  it  was  not  the  present  "Koll  on,  Silver  Moon."  It  was  published  in  1847. 

Mr.  Turner,  was  bora  in  Charlestown,  Mass.,  July  9,  1818.  From  childhood,  he  was 
excessively  fond  of  music,  but  circumstances  were  unfavorable  to  a  development  of  that 
taste,  or  to  his  securing  the  necessary  education.  He  was  the  ninth  child  in  a  family  of 
eleven ;  and,  when  fourteen  years  old,  he  began  to  work  in  the  Boston  Type-Foundry. 
Two  years  later,  he  assumed  the  care  of  the  family,  and  continued  to  maintain  it,  until  the 
death  of  his  parents,  fourteen  years  later,  caused  a  separation  of  the  household. 

Meantime,  he  was  prosecuting  musical  and  other  studies,  and,  in  1851,  he  accepted 
the  post  of  music-teacher,  in  the  Melrose  Classical  Seminary,  which  he  held  until  the 
seminary  was  removed  to  Beading.  He  was  also  church  organist  during  that  time,  and 
many  of  his  evenings  were  devoted  to  giving  concerts  in  aid  of  charitable  objects.  In 
1857,  Mr.  Turner  became  musical  editor  of  the  Waverley  Magazine  ;  he  afterward  returned 
to  the  foundry,  but  since  1863  has  given  his  entire  time  to  the  study  and  practice  of  his 
art,  as  a  teacher  and  composer  of  vocal  and  instrumental  music.  In  1852,  he  published 
a  small  volume  of  songs,  ballads,  and  music  for  the  flute  and  violin,  entitled,  "  The 


348 


OUR   FAMILIAR   SONGS. 


Minstrel's  Gift."  During  the  war,  a  large  number  of  Northern  troops,  who  were  prisoners 
near  Tyler,  Texas,  organized  a  company  of  sappers  and  miners,  and  had  a  tunnel  in  progress, 
when  news  came  that  Banks  was  within  one  hundred  and  fifty  miles.  Fifteen  adventurous 
souls,  feeling  that  the  under-ground  route  was  too  tedious,  completed  the  undermining  of 
one  of  the  great  logs  that  composed  the  stockade,  and  succeeded,  on  a  rainy  evening,  in 
fastening  a  rope  around  the  log.  A  band  of  musical  comrades  gathered  in  a  distant  part 
of  the  encampment,  and,  just  as  the  rope  was  drawn  in,  and  the  men  rushed  through  the 
opening,  the  clouds  rolled  away,  and  the  singers  broke  out  into : — 

"  Roll  on,  Silver  Moon, 
Guide  the  traveller  ou  his  way." 


m 


1.  As   I  stray'd  from  my  cot  at  the  close  of  the  day,  'Mid  the  rav-ishing  beau-ties  of    June,   'Xeath  a 

2.  As  the  hart  on  the  mountainmy  lov-erwas  brave,  So        no-  ble  and  man-  ly  and  clev  -  er,     So 

3.  But,  a  -   lasl  he   is  dead,  and    gone  to  death's  bed,—  Cut  down  like  arose   in  full    bloom;  And  a- 


Andante. 


fef*  — 

|f    x      f     x  1 

3=*=i 

i  X  

> 

X         J      X 

p   x  f   x  — 

JJJ  J  Jp 


att 


^ 


jes-  sa-mine  shade     I    es  -  pied   a  fair    maid,  And  she     plain-tive-ly  sigh'd  to    the     moon. 
kind  and  sin  -  cere,   and  he  loved  me  full    dear,  Oh,  my    Edwin,  his  e-  qual  was  nev    -    er! 
-lone  doth  he  sleep,  while  I     thus  sad-  ly    weep  'Neath  thy   soft    sil-ver  light,  gen-  tie      moon. 


oll       on,  silver  moon,  point  the  trav'ler  his  way,  While  the  nightingale's  song  is   in       tune;       I 


m 


f  y  *- 

L     i .     i 


Cw. 


/j 


dim. 


nev-er,  never  more  with  my    true   love  will  stray  By  thy       soft  sil-vcr  beams,  gen  -  tie     moon. 


His    lone    grave    I'll    seek    out    until   morning 


appears, 

And  weep  o'er  my  lover  so  brave  ; 
I'll  embrace  the  cold  sod,  and  bathe  with  my  tears, 
The  sweet  flowers  that  bloom  o'er  his  grave. 


Ah,  me !  ne'er  again  may  my  bosom  rejoice, 
For  my  lost  love  I  fain  would  meet  soon ; 

And  fond  lovers  will  weep  o'er  the  grave  where 

we  sleep, 
'Neath  thy  soft  silver  light,  gentle  moon. 


WE  MET,  'TWAS  IN  A  CROWD. 

WE   MET,   'TWAS   IN  A  CROWD. 


349 


BOTH  the  words  and  the  music  of  this  song,  are  the  composition  of  THOMAS  HAYNES 
BAYLY. 


fe-*—  J— 

•  —  1\      -p;  ~ 

P      t      -*    E 

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tr-  —  *  —             —  *—                           —  *  —                                      0  — 

1.  "We    met  —        'twas    in      a  crowd—               And    I    thought    he    would    shun      me;             He 
2.  And  once               a  -  gain  wo   met,                   And   a      fair       girl     was      near      him  ;           He 

TO"4"^  — 

r«  —  J  »  

3  i  T  —  - 

1*  —  hi  " 

—  —  i—  —  i  —  i    i    i  — 

«y 

r  f  r  f  r  '  r  '  r  '  T  ' 

•*•  *  *      w 

9F»      *  .^ 

r—  J  r  r  1 

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~a ^ 


£tEE3E^ 


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came  —         I     could    not    breathe, 
smil'd  and  whis  -  per'd    low, 


For  his      eye     was       up 
As      I      once     used        to 


on       me;  He 

hear     him;  She 


ji-£  —  i  p_  —  P— 

-r--t—  r  —  f- 

£ 

1  ,  

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A   —  Is     J— 

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!  

—  *  *!  i  £  — 

spoke,        his    words  were  cold,                 And    his    smile 
leant            up  -  on      his      arm  —               Once  'twas  mine, 

/-,  J*     *                           *                   *                        *                     ... 

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was 
and 

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un           -   al  -    ter'd;            I 
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knew           how  much    he     felt,                 For  his      deep  -  toned    voice 
wept,           for       I        de  -  serv'd               To    feel    wretch  -  ed       and 

fal  -  ter'd;             I 
lone   -   ly;             And 

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350 


OUR  FAMILIAR  SONGS. 


l£*  . 

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—  *r*~ 

(m  f  .  - 

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will     b( 

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robe,             And       I 
bride  !             At     the 

_£_^  e  ,_,_ 

ri       -       val'd     its 
.al       -       tar       he'll 

white-ness  !            Bright 
give      her,            The 

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r~  f1  —  ***s^  — 

-  •    i  •    * 

gems         were    in       my       hair,              How  I       hat       •      ed     their       bright  -  ness  !           He 
love           that    was    too       pure               For    a      heart         -         less     de  -  ceiv    -   er;            The 

11                                                                                                                                                                /*?•> 

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^z__             __^_ 

call'd          me     by     my 
world         may  think   me 

oft  "• 

jk*—T  i— 

name  —              A 
gay,                 Fo 

>  

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*     the 
r     my 

>ride        of        an 
feel    -  ings       I 

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ad  lib. 


«b                        —  w  — 

—  jfe    •     r^.  — 

1  fi  H-  - 

—  j  H 

thou           hast  been    the 
thou           hast  been    the 

It*      T         —t  1 

cause      of        this 
cause      of        this 

.     »  •  
~3~ 

** 
, 

an    -     guish,          my 
an    -     guish,           my 

-j-  —  —  J  —  B 

moth    -      er  ! 
moth    -      er  ! 

—  h=  fl 

•F  .      •+•+••           -0-          f 

!      !      !      1          '.          1 

-9-                 ~9- 

r  .'  r  r  r  ' 

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AND   YE  SHALL   WALK  IN  SILK  ATTIRE. 

AND  YE  SHALL  WALK  IN  SILK  ATTIRE. 


351 


THE  words  of  this  song  are  by  SUSANNA  BLAMIRB,  who  wrote  "What  ails  this  Heart  o' 
mine?"  and  they  are  set  to  the  favorite  Scottish  air  of  "  The  Siller  Crown." 


1.  And     ye      shall  walk    in         silk       at  -  tire,  And     sil  -  ler       ha'e    to        spare, 

2.  The   mind  whose  mean-  est       wish     is   pure,    Far    dear  -  er         is       to        me ; . . 

3.  His    mind    and     man-ners      wan     my  heart,   He    grate  -  fu'      took  the        gift,.-. 


Gin 
And 
And 


ye'll  con  -  sent  to  be  my  bride,  Nor  think  on  Don  -  aid 
ere  I'm  forced  to  break  my  faith,  I'll  lay  me  down  and 
did  I  wish  to  see  it  back,  It  wad  be  waur  than 


mair-...         O, 
dee For 

theft;...        For 


— U-t-  =^     I        p~ 

wad     buy      a  silk    -   en    gown,  Wi'        a     poor  brok  • 

ha'e    vow'd    a         vir   -   gin's  vow,    My  lov  -  er's  fate 

est      life     can  ne'er       re  -   pay    The  love     he  bears 


en 
to 
to 


heart?, 
share : . 
me,... 


Or 
And 
And 


£ 


352  OUR   FAMILIAR   SONGS. 

THOU    HAST    WOUNDED    THE    SPIRIT 
THAT    LOVED    THEE. 

ONE  of  the  most  familiar  of  all  familiar  songs,  is  the  one  beginning  "Thou  hast 
wounded  the  Spirit  that  loved  thee."  It  was  written  and  composed  by  MRS.  PORTER, 
mother  of  the  present  Admiral  of  the  United  States  Navy.  She  not  only  concealed  her 
authorship  of  the  song,  but  even  modestly  withheld  from  publication  a  stanza  which, 
from  its  beauty,  I  take  special  pleasure  in  restoring  to  its  place.  I  am  indebted  for  the 
lines,  to  the  excellent  memory  of  Mrs.  Farragut,  widow  of  the  Admiral. 

Like  the  sunbeams  that  play  on  the  ocean, 

In  tremulous  touches  of  light, 
Is  the  heart  in  its  early  emotion, 

Illumined  with  visions  as  bright. 
Yet  oftimes  beneath  the  waves  swelling. 

A  tempest  will  suddenly  come, 
All  rudely  and  wildly  dispelling 

The  love  of  the  happiest  home. 


:£    ^    ~*    ~ft     .     n 

*£ESEE*= 


9 

1.  Thou  hast  wounded  the    spir  -  it   that  lov'd  thee, 

2.  Thus  we're  taught  in  this  cold  world  to    smother, 


And    cher-ish'd  thine  im  -  age    for 
Each    feel  -  ing  that  once  was    so 


y-yy    3*3  *s  s  S  3 


years  ; 
dear; 


^ 


Thou  hast  taught   me    at      last       to      for    -   get    thee. 
Like  that  young  bird,  I'll    seek      to      dis    -   cov  -  cr, 


In 
A 


if 


-  —  9 


^ 


ge    -  cret,  in     si  -  lence  and 
home       of  af  -  fee  -tion   else 


tears*; 
where 


As    a    young  bird  when  left      by       its 
Tho'  this  heart  may    still    cling     to      thee 


THOU  HAST  WOUNDED  THE  SPIRIT  THAT  LOVED  THEE. 


353 


moth-et, 
fond-ly, 


Its     ear    -  li    -    est    pin    -  ions  to       try, . . 
And  dream   of    sweet  mem   -    o  -rles      past,  • 


fe 


:£^ 


'Round  the 
Yet 


—m * ^    — j — 


1 


-9 *- 


*f=- 


-jfo .._  K      ~~fr~-is      "N i*       N 


nest      will  still    lin    -  ger  -  iug       hov  -  er, 
hope,     like  the    rain  -  bow    of         sum  -mer, 


j=j= 


Ere  its       tremb    -    ling    wings    can 
Gives  a      promise        of     Lethe       at 


~H   T-T£— g-i-3i±f~f^~:B 


j       ,             •?      «r              i 

ffiS                                -                      *      '        *           0           0           ,—+,  J 

*         0                         1           '             •         I 

last  •••!••••••                  Tho'  this  heart  may  still    cling     to    thee 

fond-ly,                              And 

^-tf1-?  —  ^    —*f  —  —  "3  *  —  j  —  j;  —  ?  —  ^  —  j— 

—  ^  1—  —  1  ^  -1^ 

^        iiii           -^-^         ** 

i               i 

1  1      44 

~  —  ^  —  j  —  if—  i 

?F-^  '  —  *  1  -[-J  ^  -j  : 

_*  1  £_  5_| 

fc ^ N; » 

—0—0 •— 


ear    -  li    -est      pin    -  ions  to 
dream   of    sweet  mem   -    o-ries 


try,.. 
past,. 


'Round  the    nest     will  still  lin -ger -ing 
Yet       hope,     like  the  rain-bow   of 


354 


OUR   FAMILIAR    SONGS. 


OH   NO,  WE   NEVER   MENTION   HER! 

THOMAS  HAYNES  BAYLY  wrote  this  little  song  after  lie  had  been  repulsed  by  the 
parents  of  his  first  love.  Each  afterward  married  "another."  Henry  Phillips,  the 
English  singer,  says  in  his  pleasant  "  Recollections,"  that  Mr.  Bayly  called  his  attention  to 
the  ballad,  and  adds :  "  The  poetry  was  well  adapted  to  my  feelings,  for  I  was  desperately 
in  love,  at  that  time,  with  at  least  a  dozen  whose  names  were  never  heard.  I  felt  I  could 
give  full  expression  to  the  ballad,  so  sang  it,  and  the  effect  it  produced  was  indeed  great ; 
I  was  always  encored  in  this  song.  It  was  evident  to  all  that  I  sang  it  with  peculiar 
pathos,  and  I  seemed  so  deeply  affected,  that  the  audience  invariably  brought  me  back 
again,  to  witness  my  misery !  This  ballad  put  thousands  of  pounds  into  the  pockets  of  the 
publisher;  a  profit  in  which,  I  am  sorry  to  say,  I  did  not  in  any  degree  participate."  The 
song  has  been  rendered  into  German,  Latin,  Italian,  French,  and  Spanish,  by  different  trans- 
lators. Archdeacon  Wrangham,  who  made  the  Latin  translation,  turned  many  others  of 
Mr.  Bayly's  songs  into  the  same  language.  The  air  to  which  it  is  set  is  French,  and  was 
arranged  by  SIR  HENRY  KOWLEY  BISHOP. 


s 


1.  Oh,     no,       wenev-er  men  -  tion  her  I  Her       name       is  nev-er  heard; 

2.  They   bid       me  seek,  in         change  of  scene,  The     charms   that  others  see, 


My 
But, 


3i=£ 


lips       are  now       for  -  hid        to  speak    That       once        fa  -  mil  -    iar        word, 
were       I      in  a       for  -   eign  land,  They'd      find        no  change     in  me. 


From 
'Tis 


OH  NO,    WE  NEVER  MENTION  HER! 


35.5 


m 


sport       to    sport    they         hur  -  ry        me,        To      ban  -  iah  my       re  -  gret, 

true     that     I         be     -     hold  no       more      The      val-ley        where    we      met, 


And 
I 


For  oh  !  there  are  so  many  things 

Recall  the  past  to  me  ; 
The  breeze  upon  the  sunny  hills, 

The  billows  of  the  sea  ; 
The  rosy  tint  that  decks  the  sky, 

Before  the  sun  is  set, 
Aye,  every  leaf  I  look  upon, 

Forbids  me  to  forget. 


They  tell  me  she  is  happy  now, 

The  gayest  of  the  gay ; 
They  hint  that  she  forgets  me, 

But  heed  not  what  they  say: 
Like  me,  perhaps,  she  struggles 

With  each  feeling  of  regret, 
But  if  she  loves  as  I  have  loved, 

She  never  can  forget ! 


ROBIN    At) AIR, 

EGBERT  AD  AIR  was  born  in  Ireland,  about  1715.  He  was  educated  as  a  surgeon,  and 
practised  in  Dublin ;  but,  being  involved  in  a  scandalous  affair,  was  compelled  to  quit  the 
country,  and  went  to  England.  Near  Holyhead  occurred  the  first  of  a  series  of  incidents, 
which  finally  gave  him  the  title  of  "  the  fortunate  Irishman."  The  carriage  of  a  lady  of 
fashion  was  overturned,  and  Adair  ran  to  her  assistance.  Being  somewhat  hurt,  she 
requested  him  to  travel  with  her  to  London,  and  on  their  arrival  there,  she  gave  him  a 
fee  of  a  hundred  guineas,  and  a  general  invitation  to  her  house.  There  he  met  LADY 
CAROLINE  KEPPEL,  second  daughter  of  the  second  Earl  of  Albemarle,  and  sister  of  the 
celebrated  Admiral  Keppel. 

Lady  Caroline  is  said  to  have  fallen  in  love  with  Adair  at  first  sight.  Adair  promptly 
followed  up  his  advantange,  to  the  dismay  of  her  family,  who  tried  every  possible  expedi- 
ent to  break  off  her  attachment.  These  included  several  journeys,  on  one  of  which,  at 
Bath,  she  is  said  to  have  written  the  words  of  this  song,  and  set  them  to  a  tune  which  she 
had  heard  him  sing.  The  air  is  claimed  by  both  the  Irish  and  the  Scotch. 


356 


OUR  FAMILIAR  SONGS. 


The  family  finally  gave  up  their  opposition,  when  they  saw  that  her  health  was 
affected ;  the  lovers  were  married.  After  a  few  happy  years,  the  lady  died,  leaving  three 
children.  Adair  (who  never  married  again)  was  a.  favorite  of  George  III.,  and  was  made, 
successively,  Inspector  General  of  Military  Hospitals,  Surgeon  General,  King's  Sergeant 
Surgeon,  and  Surgeon  of  Chelsea  Hospital.  He  died  in  1790.  Their  only  son,  the  Eight 
Honorable  Sir  Robert  Adair,  G.  C.  B.,  died  in  1855,  at  the  age  of  ninety-two.  He  was 
distinguished  as  a  diplomatist,  and  is  said  to  have  been  the  original  of  the  character  of 
fiogero,  in  Canning's  "  Rovers." 


__^ 

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n 


1.  What's     this       dull  town 

2.  What    made     th'as     -     sem 

3.  But       now    thou'rt         cold 


to    me?  Ro    -  bin's      not  near, 

bly  shine?         Ro    -   bin        A       •       dair. 
to    me,  Ro    -    bin        A       -       dair. 


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What,  when     the         play          was  o'er,     What      made     my       heart      so  sore?  Oh,    it       was 
Yet        he         I  lov'd  so  well        Still          in        my      heart  shall  dwell ;  Oh,    I        can 


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SHE  IS  FAR   FROM  THE  LAND. 

THOMAS  MOOEE  sang  his  own  songs  with  such  effect,  that  singer  and  listener  often 
wept  together.  He  had  selected  the  sweetest  airs  of  his  country,  and  had  versified  senti- 
ments that  would  suit  them,  in  a  mood  suggested  by  them,  and  it  was  a  great  trial  to  him 
that  choking  sobs  would  overwhelm  him  when  he  most  longed  for  self-control.  After  the 
loss  of  his  children  he  was  often  afraid  to  attempt  pathetic  music.  The  song  of  his  which 
follows  commemorates  the  love  and  sorrow  of  a  beautiful  girl,  and  her  lover.  The  lady 
was  Miss  Sarah  Curran,  and  the  lover  was  Eobert  Emmet.  Washington  Irving  thus  tells 
the  story: 

"Every  one  must  recollect  the  tragical  story  of  young  E ,  the  Irish  patriot;  it 

was  too  touching  to  be  soon  forgotten.  During  the  troubles  in  Ireland,  he  was  tried,  con- 
demned, and  executed,  on  a  charge  of  treason.  His  fate  made  a  deep  impression  on  public 
sympathy.  He  was  so  young — so  intelligent — so  generous — so  brave — so  everything 
that  we  are  apt  to  like  in  a  young  man.  His  conduct  under  trial,  too,  was  so  lofty  and 
intrepid.  The  noble  indignation  with  which  he  repelled  the  charge  of  treason  against  his 
country — the  eloquent  vindication  of  his  name — and  his  pathetic  appeal  to  posterity, 
in  the  hopeless  hour  of  condemnation — all  these  entered  deeply  into  every  generous 
bosom,  and  even  his  enemies  lamented  the  stern  policy  that  dictated  his  execution. 

"  But  there  was  one  heart,  whose  anguish  it  would  be  impossible  to  describe.  In  hap- 
pier days  and  fairer  fortunes,  he  had  won  the  affections  of  a  beautiful  and  interesting  girl, 
the  daughter  of  a  late  celebrated  Irish  barrister.  She  loved  him  with  the  disinterested 
fervor  of  a  woman's  first  and  early  love.  When  every  worldly  maxim  arrayed  itself 
against  him;  when  blasted  in  fortune,  and  disgrace  and  danger  darkened  around  his  name, 
she  loved  him  the  more  ardently  for  his  very  sufferings.  If,  then,  his  fate  could  awaken 
the  sympathy  even  of  his  foes,  what  must  have  been  the  agony  of  her  whose  whole  soul 
was  occupied  by  his  image !  Let  those  tell  who  have  had  the  portals  of  the  tomb  suddenly 
closed  between  them  and  the  being  they  most  loved  on  earth — who  have  sat  at  its  thresh- 
old, as  one  shut  out  in  a  cold  and  lonely  world,  whence  all  that  was  most  lovely  and  loving 
had  departed. 

"To  render  her  widowed  situation  more  desolate,  she  had  incurred  her  father's 
displeasure  by  her  unfortunate  attachment,  and  was  an  exile  from  the  paternal 
roof.  The  Irish  are  a  people  of  quick  and  generous  sensibilities.  The  most  delicate 
and  cherishing  attentions  were  paid  her  by  families  of  wealth  and  distinction.  She 
was  led  into  society,  and  they  tried  by  all  kinds  of  occupation  and  amusement  to  dis- 
sipate her  grief,  and  wean  her  from  the  tragical  story  of  her  love.  But  it  was  all  in  vain. 


358 


OUR  FAMILIAR   SONGS. 


She  never  objected  to  frequent  the  haunts  of  pleasure,  but  was  as  much  alone  there  as  In 
the  depths  of  solitude;  walking  about  in  a  sad  reverie,  apparently  unconscious  of  the 
world  around  her.  She  carried  with  her  an  inward  woe  that  mocked  at  all  the  blandish- 
ments of  friendship,  and  '  heeded  not  the  song  of  the  charmer,  charm  he  never  so  wisely.' 

"  The  person  who  told  me  her  story,  had  seen  her  at  a  masquerade.  There  can  be  no 
exhibition  of  far-gone  wretchedness,  more  striking  and  painful,  than  to  meet  it  in  such  a 
scene.  To  find  it  wandering  like  a  spectre,  lonely  and  joyless,  where  all  around  is  gay — to 
see  it  dressed  out  in  the  trappings  of  mirth,  and  looking  so  wan  and  woe-begone,  as  if  it 
had  tried  in  vain  to  cheat  the  poor  heart  into  a  momentary  forgetfulness  of  sorrow.  After 
strolling  through  the  splendid  rooms  and  giddy  crowd,  with  an  air  of  utter  abstraction,  she 
sat  herself  down  on  the  steps  of  an  orchestra,  and,  looking  about  for  some  time  with  a 
vacant  air,  that  showed  her  insensibility  to  the  garish  scene,  she  began,  with  the  capricious- 
ness  of  a  sickly  heart,  to  warble  a  little  plaintive  air.  She  had  an  exquisite  voice;  but  on 
this  occasion  it  was  so  simple,  so  touching,  it  breathed  forth  such  a  soul  of  wretchedness,, 
that  she  drew  a  crowd,  mute  and  silent,  around  her,  and  melted  every  one  into  tears. 

"  The  story  of  one  so  true  and  tender  could  not  but  excite  great  interest  in  a  country 
remarkable  for  enthusiasm.  It  completely  won  the  heart  of  a  brave  officer,  who  paid  his 
addresses  to  her,  and  thought  that  one  so  true  to  the  dead  could  not  but  prove  affec- 
tionate to  the  living.  She  declined  his  attentions,  for  her  thoughts  were  irrevocably 
engrossed  by  the  memory  of  her  former  lover.  He,  however,  persisted  in  his  suit.  He 
solicited  not  her  tenderness,  but  her  esteem.  He  was  assisted  by  her  conviction  of  his 
worth,  and  her  sense  of  her  own  destitute  and  dependent  situation,  for  she  was  existing 
on  the  kindness  of  friends.  In  a  word,  he  at  length  succeeded  in  gaining  her  hand,  though 
with  the  solemn  assurance  that  her  heart  was  unalterably  another's. 

"  He  took  her  with  him  to  Sicily,  hoping  that  a  change  of  scene  might  wear  out  the 
remembrance  of  early  woes.  She  was  an  amiable  and  examplary  wife,  and  made  an  effort 
to  be  a  happy  one ;  but  nothing  could  cure  the  silent  and  devouring  melancholy  that  had 
entered  into  her  very  soul.  She  wasted  away,  in  a  slow,  but  hopeless  decline,  and  at 
length  sunk  into  the  grave,  the  victim  of  a  broken  heart." 


MKP  !>    *    -j*-^  —  E3E 

H  —  r=4  —  ^E 

-t  —  M^  —  i  ?—  *H 

^y            W   •                            1.       B       / 
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lov  -    era     a  -  round  her  are 
note    which  he        loved         a    - 

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sigh     -       ing;         But 
wak      -       ing;         Ah! 

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lit   -     tie   they    think,  who   de- 

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SHE  16'   FAB  FJtOM 


LAND. 


359 


gaze, 
-light   in 


and    weeps,  for  her    heart 
her  strains,  How  the  heart 


his       grave  is 

the      rain  -  strel         is 


iy 

break 


ng- 
ing. 


teneramente. 


1 


He   had   lived  for   his  love,  for  his    country  he 
died, 

They  were  all  that  to  life  had  entwined  him; 
Nor  soon  shall  the  tears  of  his  country  be  dried, 

Nor  long  will  his  love  stay  behind  him. 


Oh  !  make  her  a  grave  where  the  sun-beams  rest, 
When  they  promise  a  glorious  morrow; 

They'll  shine  o'er  her  sleep,  like  a  smile  from  the 

West, 
From  her  own  loved  island  of  sorrow. 


HIGHLAND    MARY. 

THE  true  "  Highland  Mary"  of  EGBERT  BURNS  was  Mary  Campbell,  a  servant  in  a  gen- 
tleman's family  in  Mauchline.  She  had  unusual  mental  gifts,  and  a  sweet  disposition. 
Burns  describes  the  last  parting  which  took  place  between  them :  "  After  a  pretty  long 
tract  of  the  most  ardent  reciprocal  attachment,  we  met  by  appointment  on  the  second 
Sunday  of  May,  in  a  sequestered  spot  on  the  banks  of  Ayr,  where  we  spent  a  day  in  taking 
farewell  before  she  should  embark  for  the  West  Highlands,  to  arrange  matters  among  her 
friends  for  our  projected  change  of  life.  At  the  close  of  the  autumn  following,  she  crossed 
the  sea  to  meet  me  at  Greeuock,  where  she  had  scarce  landed,  when  she  was  seized  with  a 
malignant  fever,  which  hurried  my  dear  girl  to  the  grave  before  I  could  even  hear  of  her 
illness." 

Allan  Cunningham  tells  us  still  further:  "The  adieu  was  performed  with  all  those 
simple  and  striking  ceremonies  which  rustic  sentiment  has  devised  to  prolong  tender 
emotions,  and  to  inspire  awe.  The  lovers  stood  on  each  side  of  a  small  purling  brook ; 
they  laved  their  hands  in  its  limpid  stream,  and,  holding  a  Bible  between  them,  pronounced 
their  vows  to  be  faithful  to  each  other."  The  Bible  is  preserved  in  a  room  which  occupies 
the  lower  portion  of  Burns's  monument  on  the  River  Doon. 

In  1842,  twelve  thousand  people  assembled  at  Greenock,  to  witness  the  laying  of  the 
corner-stone  for  a  monument  to  "Highland  Mary."  Burns  says  of  the  song:  "It  pleases 
myself;  I  think  it  is  in  my  happiest  manner.  You  will  see  at  first  glance  that  it  suits  the 
air.  The  subject  of  the  song  is  one  of  the  most  interesting  passages  of  my  youthful  days, 
and  I  own  that  I  should  be  much  flattered  to  see  the  verses  set  to  an  air  which  would 
ensure  celebrity.  Perhaps,  after  all,  'tis  the  still  growing  prejudice  of  my  heart  that  throws 
a  borrowed  lustre  over  the  composition." 

The  poet  has  gained  the  "prejudice"  of  all  hearts,  as  is  attested  by  Whittier's 
sentiment : 

Give  lettered  pomp  to  teeth  of  time, 

So  "  Bonnie  Doon,"  but  tarry; 
Blot  out  the  epic's  stately  rhyme, 

But  spare  his  "  Highland  Mary." 


OUR   FAMILIAR   SONGS. 


-f*. 

Lento. 

F  rn  —  M 

i  j  1*3  1  HI 

-  —  r  J1  pg^ 

i     .       si       ,^| 

u 

^  t  «  .        j-'  j  •  —  *  —  =  —  *  '^  4  —  ES^  —  f-   —  /—  -^=g  «  •  r 

1.    Ye     banks   and  braes,  and  streams   a-round   The      cas  -  tie    o'     Mont  - 
2.  How  sweet  -  ly  bloom'd  the    gay    green  birk  How    rich    the  hawthorn's 

•          l\      •*»  1                               "._!...                                           Sf                  I"""5          41       ~ 

gom-e-ry,    Green 
bios-  som,     As 

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Sp      J    " 

J  .  ^  ^  1 

be       your  woods  and    fair      your  flow'rs,  Your     wa  -   ters      nev  -   er        drum   -    lie  I     There 
an   -   "der-neath  their    f  ra  -  grant  shade       I      clasp'd    her       to       my       bos     -    om  I       The 


P^ 


sim  -  mer  first     un  -  faulds  her  robes,    And    there     they   lang  -   est  tar     -     ry,       For 

gold-  en  hours,  on        an  -    gel  wings,  Flew     o'er      me     ana       my          dear    -     ie;        For 


there  I   took       the       last      fare  -  well          O'  my    sweet   High  -  land        Ma     -     ry. 

dear  to   me         as        light     and_  life        Was          my    sweet    High-  land        Ma     -     ry. 

I 


m 


=sa 


Wi'  mony  a  vow  and  locked  embrace, 

Our  parting  was  fu'  tender ; 
And  pledging  aft  to  meet  again, 

We  tore  ourselves  asunder : 
But,  oh  !  fell  death's  untimely  frost 

That  nipt  my  flower  sae  early ! 
Now  green's  the  sod,  and  cauld's  the  clay 

That  wraps  my  Highland  Mary. 


O  pale,  pale  now  those  rosy  lips 

I  aft  hae  kissed  sae  fondly ; 
And  closed  for  aye  the  sparkling  glance 

That  dwelt  on  me  sae  kindly; 
And  mouldering  now  in  silent  dust 

That  heart  that  lo'ed  me  dearly ! 
But  still  within  my  bosom's  core 

Shall  live  my  Highland  Mary. 


SONGS  OF  HAPPY  LOVE, 


Oh,  there  are  looks  and  tones  that  dart 
An  instant  sunshine  through  the  heart, 
As  if  the  soul  that  minute  caught 
Some  treasure  it  through  life  had  sought. 

—  Thomas  Moore. 


"  And  yet,  my  one  lover, 

Fve  conned  thee  an  answer,  it  waits  thee  to-night." 
&F.f'&e  sycamore  passed  he,  and  through  the  white  clover, 
And  all  the  sweet  speech  I  had  fashioned,  took  flight. 
But  I'll  love  him  more,  md*  e, 
Than  e'er  wife  loved  bef or  ?5 
Be  the  days  dark  or  brigat- 

— Jean  Ingelow. 


Our  hearts  ever  answer  in  tune  and  in  time,  love, 
As  octave  to  octave,  and  rhyme  unto  rhyme,  love. 

—  Joseph  Brena*. 


SONGS  OF  HAPPY  LOVE. 


THE  autho 
MILNES  (Lord  ] 
Yorkshire,  Jun 
ae  soon  espous 
for  criminals,  e 
The  melod 

^rf¥=^ 

fm~"   J*~~' 

THE    BROOKSIDE. 

r  of  this  drawing-room  favorite  of  twenty  years  ago,  is  EICHAED  MONCKTON 
ioughton),  the  English  poet,  politician,  and  prose-  writer.     He  was  bora  in 
3  19,  1809.    He  was  graduated  at  Cambridge,  and  entered  Parliament,  where 
ed  the  liberal  side,  advocating  popular  education,  religious  equality,  reform 
tc.    He  visited  this  country  in  1875,  and  died  in  London,  Aug.  11,  1885. 
y  which  suits  these  picturesque  words  so  well,  was  composed  by  JAMES  HINE. 

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364 


OU2i   FAMILIAR    HONGS. 


I  wandered  by  the  brookside, 

1  wandered  by  the  mill ; 
I  could  not  hear  the  brook  flow, — 

The  noisy  wheel  was  still. 
There  was  no  burr  of  grasshopper, 

No  chirp  of  any  bird, 
But  the  beating  of  my  own  heart 

Was  all  the  sound  I  heard. 

I  sat  beneath  the  elm-tree  : 

I  watched  the  long,  long  shade, 
And,  as  it  grew  still  longer, 

I  did  not  feel  afraid  : 
For  I  listened  for  a  footfall, 

I  listened  for  a  word, — 
But  the  beating  of  my  own  heart 

Was  all  the  sound  I  heard. 


He  came  not, —  no,  he  came  not, — 

The  night  came  on  alone, — 
The  little  stars  sat  one  by  one, 

Each  on  his  golden  throne; 
The  evening  air  passed  by  my  cheek. 

The  leaves  above  were  stirred, 
But  the  beating  of  my  own  heart 

Was  all  the  sound  I  heard. 

Fast,  silent  tears  were  flowing, 

When  something  stood  behind  : 
A  hand  was  on  my  shoulder, — 

I  knew  its  touch  was  kind: 
It  drew  me  nearer  —  nearer — 

We  did  not  speak  one  word, 
For  the  beating  of  our  own  hearts 

Was  all  the  sound  we  heard. 


ANNIE    LAURIE. 


They  gang  of  love,  and  not  of  fame; 

Forgot  was  Britain's  glory ; 
Each  heart  recalled  a  different  name, 

But  all  sang  "  Annie  Laurie." 


And  Irish  Nora's  eyes  are  dim, 
For  a  singer  dumb  and  gory ; 

And  English  Mary  mourns  for  him 
Who  sang  of  "  Annie  Laurie." 


Annie  Laurie  has  come  to  mean,  the  universal  soldier's  sweetheart,  "The  girl  he 
left  behind  him,"  and  it  is  pleasant  to  know  that  there  really  was  an  Annie  Laurie,  once; 
two  centuries  ago,  she  was  a  blooming  lassie.  Here  is  the  record,  exactly  as  it  was  made 
in  a  trustworthy  old  "  Ballad-Book,"  collected  by  Charles  Kirkpatrick  Sharpe,  of  Hoddam  : 


ANNIE    LA  US  IE. 


365 


"Sir  Robert  Laurie,  first  baronet  of  the  Maxwellton  family  (created  27th  March,  1685),  by 
his  second  wife,  a  daughter  of  RiddeUo,  Minto,  had  three  sons,  and  four  daughters,  of  whom 
Anne  was  much  celebrated  for  her  beauty,  and  made  a  conquest  of  MR.  DOUGLAS,  of 
Fiugland,  who  composed  the  following  verses,  under  an  unlucky  star — for  the  lady  married 
Mr.  Ferguson,  of  Craigdarroch."  These  are  the  original  words : — 


Maxwellton  braes  are  bonnie, 

Where  early  fa's  the  dew ; 
Where  ma  and  Annie  Laurie 

Made  up  the  promise  true ; 
Made  up  the  promise  true, 

And  never  forget  will  I, 
And  for  bonnie  Annie  Laurie 

I'll  lav  me  down  and  die. 


She's  backit  like  the  peacock, 

She's  briestit  like  the  swan; 
She's  jimp  about  the  middle, 

Her  waist  ye  weel  micht  span ; 
Her  waist  ye  weel  micht  span, 

And  she  has  a  rolling  eye, 
And  for  Bonnie  Annie  Laurie, 

I'll  lay  me  me  down  and  die. 


The  present  air  of  "  Annie  Laurie,"  is  the  composition  of  Lady  JOHN  SCOTT,  authoress 
of  both  words  and  music  of  many  songs,  which  have  become  popular  in  her  own  country. 
Her  maiden  name  was  Alicia  Anne  Spottiswoode.  She  married,  in  1836,  Lord  John 
Douglass  Scott,  a  son  of  the  Duke  of  Buccleuch. 

A  collection  of  Lady  Scott's  musical  compositions  has  been  published  in  London. 

Andante. 


bon  -   me, 

snaw  -  drift, 

ly    -    ing, 


And  it's  there 

Her       face 

And  like  winds 


that  An  -  nie 
it  is  the 
in  sum-mer 


Lau  -  rie, 
fair  -  est 
sigh  -  ing, 


Gie'd  me 
That  e'er 
Her  voice 


her  prom   -  ise 

the  sun       shone 

is  low          and 


her  prom    -       ise  true, 
the    sun         shone  on, 
is     low  and  sweet, 

I    |N» 


Which  ne'er 
And  dark 
And  she's  a' 


for  -  got  will 

blue     is  her 

the  world         to 


n 


366 


OUR  FAMILIAR  SONGS. 


pp  ad  lib. 


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THE    WELCOME. 

THOMAS  OSBOENE  DAVIS  was  boru  in  Mallow,  County  Cork,  Ireland,  in  1814  Until  he 
was  twenty-six  years  old,  he  was  an  enthusiastic  student.  After  leaving  Trinity  College, 
Dublin,  he  was  called  to  the  Irish  bar.  The  need  of  his  country  for  an  enlightened  public 
journal,  led  him,  in  connection  with  two  others,  to  establish  The  Nation,  which,  although 
he  did  not  edit  it,  he  inspired  with  his  own  noble  enthusiasm.  The  editor,  who  well  knew 
the  force  of  patriotic  song,  and  especially  realized  its  power  to  move  the  susceptible  hearts 
of  his  countrymen,  wanted  to  publish  a  series  of  national  ballads.  Thomas  Davis  had  never 
attempted  rhyme,  but  the  theme  was  so  inspiring,  that  the  lawyer  found  himself,  perforce, 
turned  verse-writer,  and  came  to  be  recognized  as  one  of  his  country's  most  genuine  poets. 
That  country's  estimation  of  his  character  and  services,  has  been  thus  expressed :  "  A  more 
earnest  and  sincere  man  than  Davis  never  lived.  In  his  total  abnegation  of  self,  in  his 
fiery  genius,  and  generous  impulses,  he  was  'his  own  parallel.'  The  characteristics  of  his 
nature,  were  a  strict  love  of  truth  and  right,  and  an  exuberant,  joyous  spirit.  His  devoted 
love  for  Ireland  knew  no  bounds ;  his  fidelity  to  her  interests  has  rarely  been  equaled ; 
and  he  served  her  with  intense  zeal,  without  stint  or  reserve,  for  the  sole  gratification  of 
doing  good  to  his  kind.  His  simplicity,  and  almost  womanly  tenderness,  were  beautifully 
blended  with  the  severe  integrity  of  his  principles."  Davis,  died  in  Dublin,  September  16, 
1845.  "  The  Welcome  "  is  one  his  most  popular  poems. 


J 


1.  Come  in     the      ev'-ning,  or    come    in     the      morn  -  ing,  Come  when  you're  look'd  for,  or 

2.  I'll     pull  you  sweet  flow-  era     to    wear,   if  you  choose  them ;  Or,  after  you've  kiss'd  them,they'll 


come  with-out 
lie     on    my 


warn  -    ing, 
bos-  om.  I'll 


Kiss  -  es    and     welcome  you'll    find  here   be  -  fore  you,  And  the 
fetch  from  the  mount-urn   its     breeze  to     in  -  spire  you ;      I'll 


THE 


367 


oft'- ner  you  come  here  the    more  I'll     a-dore  you.  Light     is     my  heart  since  the 

fetch  from  my  fan  -  cy      a       tale  that  won't  tire  you.     Oh !  your     step's  like   the  rain    to    the 


day   we  were  plight  -  ed,  Red       is     my  cheek  that  they  told  me  was   blight  -  ed;The 

suru-mer-vex'd  farm  -   er,   Or          sa  -    bre  and  shield  to      a    knight  with-out      ar  -   mor ;  I'll 


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green  of  the  trees  looks  far  greener  than  ev-er,  And  the   linnets  are  singing,  "true  lovers  don't  sever." 
sing  you  sweet  songs  till   stars  rise  a-bove  me,  Then,waiid'ring  I'll  wish  you,  in  silence,  to  love  me. 


Come  in  the  evening,  or  come  in  the  morning ; 
Come  when  you're  looked  for,  or  come  without 

warning ; 

Kisses  and  welcome  you'll  find  here  before  you, 
And   the   oftener  you  come   here  the   more   I'll 

adore  you ! 

Light  is  my  heart  since  the  day  we  were  plighted ; 
Red  is  my  cheek  that  they  told  me  was  blighted ; 
The  green  of  the  trees  looks  far  greener  than  ever, 
And  the  linnets  are  singing  "  True  lovers  don't 

sever! " 

I'll  pull  you  sweet  flowers,  to  wear  if  you  choose 

them ! 
Or,  after  you've  kissed  them,  they'll  lie  on  my 

bosom ; 
I'll  fetch  from  the  mountain  its  breeze  to  inspire 

you; 

I'll  fetch  from  my  fancy  a  tale  that  won't  'tire  you. 
Oh,  your  step's  like  the  rain  to  the  summer-vexed 

farmer, 

Or  sabre  and  shield  to  a  knight  without  armor; 
I'll  singyou  sweet  songs  till  the  stars  rise  above  me, 
Then,wand'ring,  I'll  wish  you. in  silence,  to  love  me 


We'll  look  thro'  the  trees  at  the  cliff  and  the  eyry ; 
We'll  tread  round  the  rath  on  the  track  of  the 

fairy; 
We'll   look   on   the   stars,  and  we'll   list   to   the 

river, 
Till  you  ask  of  your  darling  what  gift  you  can 

give  her. — 
Oh,  she'll  whisper  you,  "  Love,  as  unchangeably 

beaming, 

And  trust,  when  in  secret,most  tunefully  streaming ; 
Till  the  starlight  of  heaven  above  us  shall  quiver, 
As  our  souls  flow  in  one  down  eternity's  river." 

So  come  in  the  evening,  or  come  in  the  morning  ; 
Come  when  you're  looked  for,  or  come  without 

warning ; 

Kisses  and  welcome  you'll  find  here  before  you, 
And  the   oftener  you  come  here  the  more   I'll 

adore  you  ! 

Light  is  my  heart  since  the  day  we  were  plighted; 
Red  is  my  cheek  that  they  told  me  was  blighted ; 
The  green  of  the  trees  looks  far  greener  than  ever, 
And  the  linnets  are  singing,  "  True  lovers  don't 


y6b  OUR   FAMILIAR    SONGS. 

WANDERING    WILLIE. 

THE  beautiful  old  Scottish  air  called  "  Here  awa,  there  awa,"  was  an  especial  favorite 
with  BURNS.  The  original  song  written  to  it  was  very  old,  and  thirty  years  before  he 
wrote  his  beautiful  words,  with  the  added  element  of  the  possible  grief  which  "  love  knows 
the  secret  of,"  the  following  three  stanzas  were  all  that  had  survived : 


Here  awa'.  there  awa',  here  awa',  Willie, 
Here  awa',  there  awa',  haud  awa'  hame; 

Lang  have  I  sought  thee,  dear  have  I  bought  thee, 
Now  I  have  gotten  my  Willie  again. 

Through  the  lang  muir  I  have  followed  my  Willie, 
Through  the  lang  muir  I  have  followed  him  hame; 


Whatever  betide  us,  naught  shall  divide  us, 
Love  now  rewards  all  my  sorrow  and  pain. 

Here  awa',  there  awa',  here  awa',  Willie, 
Here  awa',  there  awa',  haud  awa'  hame ; 

Come,  love,  believe  me,  naething  can  grieve  me, 
Ilka  thing  pleases  when  Willie's  at  hame. 


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bers ; 

How  your  dread  howling  a  lover  alarms  ! 
Wauken,  ye  breezes  !  row  gently,  ye  billows  ! 


Nannie, 

Flow  still  between  us,  thou  wide  roaring  main ! 
May  I  never  see  it,  may  I  never  trow  it, 


And  waft  my  dear  laddie  ance  mair  to  my  arms,  j      But.  dying,  believe  that  my  Willie's  my  ain  ! 


SALLY  IN   GUM   ALLEY. 


SALLY  IN   OUR   ALLEY. 


369 


HENRY  CAREY,  author  of  "  Sally  in  our  Alley,"  was  born  about  1663,  and  was  a  natural 
son  of  George  Saville,  Marquis  of  Halifax,  whose  family  granted  Carey  a  handsome  annuity. 
He  adopted  the  musical  profession  ;  but,  although  he  had  unusual  advantages,  he  never 
rose  to  eminence.  For  many  years,  he  taught  music  in  schools  and  families  of  the  middle 
rank.  He  was  a  prolific  writer  of  songs,  and  in  1729  published  two  volumes  of  poems, 
many  of  which  are  good,  and  one  or  two  of  which  are  widely  known.  His  fame  must 
rest  upon  the  one  song  which  touched  the  popular  heart.  —  "Sally  in  our  Alley";  for  his 
claim  to  the  authorship  of  "  God  save  the  King"  is  too  stoutly  denied,  to  add  anything  to  it. 

He  seems  to  have  been  a  man  of  good  qualities  and  character.  He  was  the  principal 
projector  of  the  fund  for  decayed  musicians,  their  widows,  and  children.  In  announcing 
a  benefit  concert  to  be  given  him,  the  London  Daily  Post  of  December  3,  1730,  said: 
"  At  our  friend,  Harry  Carey's  benefit,  to-night,  the  powers  of  music,  poetry,  and  painting, 
assemble  in  his  behalf;  he  being  an  admirer  of  the  three  arts.  The  body  of  musicians 
meet  in  the  Hayrnarket,  whence  they  march  in  great  order,  preceded  by  a  magnificent  moving 
organ,  in  form  of  a  pageant,  accompanied  by  all  the  kinds  of  musical  instruments  ever  in  use, 
from  Tubal  Cain  until  the  present  day.  A  great  multitude  of  booksellers,  authors,  and 
printers  form  themselves  into  a  body  at  Temple  Bar,  whence  they  march,  with  great  decency, 
to  Covent  Garden,  preceded  by  a  little  army  of  printer's  devils,  with  their  proper  instru- 
ments. Here  the  two  bodies  of  music  and  poetry  are  joined  by  the  brothers  of.  the  pencil, 
where,  after  taking  some  refreshments  at  the  Bedford  Arms,  they  march  in  solemn  proces- 
sion to  the  theatre,  amidst  an  innumerable  crowd  of  spectators." 

"Sally  in  our  Alley"  was  one  of  the  most  popular  songs  ever  made  in  England.  In 
the  third  edition  of  his  poems,  Carey  gives  an  account  of  the  manner  in  which  it  came  to 
be  written.  He  says  :  "  The  real  occasion  was  this  :  A  shoemaker's  'prentice,  making  a  holi- 
day with  his  sweetheart,  treated  her  with  a  sight  of  Bedlam,  the  puppet-shows,  the  flying- 
chairs,  and  all  the  elegancies  of  Moorfields  ;  from  whence  proceeding  to  the  Farthing-pie- 
house,  he  gave  her  a  collation  of  buns,  cheese,  cakes,  gammon  of  bacon,  stuffed  beef,  and 
bottled  ale;  through  all  which  scenes  the  author  dodged  them  (charmed  with  the  sim- 
plicity of  their  courtship),  from  whence  he  drew  this  little  sketch  of  nature  ;  but  being 
then  young  and  obscure,  he  was  very  much  ridiculed  by  some  of  his  acquaintance  for  this 
performance,  which  nevertheless  made  its  way  into  the  polite  world,  and  amply  recom- 
pensed him  by  the  applause  of  the  divine  Addison,  who  was  pleased  (more  than  once)  to 
mention  it  with  approbation." 

Endless  were  the  answers,  parodies,  and  imitations  of  the  favorite  song.  One  of  the 
li  veliest  of  the  former  began  : 

"  Of  all  the  lads  that  are  so  smart, 
There's  none  I  love  like  Billy; 
He  is  the  darling  of  my  heart, 
And  he  lives  in  Piccadilly." 


Another  contained  the  following  : 


"  I  little  thought  when  you  began, 

To  write  of  charming  Sally, 
That  every  brat  would  sing  so  soon, 
'  She  lives  in  our  alley.'" 


Carey  committed  suicide  in  a  fit  of  despair,  October  4,  1743,  at  his  home  in  Warmer 
street,  Coldbath-fields,—  or,  to  quote  a  quaint  account,  "by  means  of  a  halter  he  put  a 


37U 


OUR   FAMILIAR   SONGS. 


period  to  a  life  which  had  been  led  without  reproach."    Like  all  who  took  their  owu  lives 
in  that  day,  he  was  buried  at  a  cross-roads,  and  his  grave  is  unknown. 

Carey  composed  the  original  air  to  his  song,  and  it  was  immensely  popular  for  thirty 
years,  when  suddenly  it  was  dropped,  and  "Sally  "  was  set  in  motion  to  a  fine  old  ballad  air, 
called  "  The  Country  Lass." 


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heart,  And       lives         in       our         al  -    ley.. 


SALLY  IN  OUR  ALLEY. 


371 


Of  all  the  girls  that  are  so  smart 

There's  none  like  pretty  Sally  ; 
She  is  the  darling  of  my  heart, 

And  she  lives  in  our  alley. 
There  is  no  lady  in  the  land 

That's  half  so  sweet  as  Sally ; 
She  is  the  darling  of  my  heart, 

And  lives  in. our  alley. 

Her  father  he  makes  cabbage-nets, 

And  through  the  streets  does  cry  'em; 
Her  mother  she  sells  laces  long 

To  such  as  please  to  buy  'em; 
But  sure  such  folks  could  ne'er  beget 

So  sweet  a  girl  as  Sally ! 
She  is  the  darling  of  my  heart, 

And  lives  in  our  alley. 

When  she  is  by,  I  leave  my  work, 

I  love  her  so  sincerely; 
My  master  comes  like  any  Turk, 

And  bangs  me  most  severely. 
But  let  him  bang  his  bellyful,  — 

I'll  bear  it  all  for  Sally  ; 
For  she  is  the  darling  of  my  heart, 

And  lives  in  our  alley. 


Of  all  the  days  that's  in  the  week 

I  dearly  love  but  one  day, 
And  that's  the  day  that  comes  betwixt 

The  Saturday  and  Monday; 
For  then  I'm  drest  all  in  my  best 

To  walk  abroad  with  Sally ; 
She  is  the  darling  of  my  heart, 

And  lives  in  our  alley. 

My  master  carries  me  to  church, 

And  often  am  I  blamed 
Because  I  leave  him  in  the  lurch 

As  soon  as  text  is  named; 
I  leave  the  church  in  sermon-time, 

And  slink  away  to  Sally, 
She  is  the  darling  of  my  heart, 

And  lives  in  our  alley. 

When  Christmas  comes  about  again, 

Oh,  then  I  shall  have  money ! 
I'll  hoard  it  up,  and  box  and  all, 

I'll  give  it  to  my  honey  ; 
Oh,  would  it  were  ten  thousand  pound! 

I'd  give  it  all  to  Sally  ; 
For  she's  the  darling  of  my  heart, 

And  lives  in  our  alley. 


JOCK  O'   HAZELDEAN. 

SIR  WALTER  SCOTT  wrote  all  except  the  first  stanza  of  this  ballad ;  that  one  he  took 
from  an  old  song  called  "Jock  0'  Hazelgreen."  The  present  words  were  written  for 
"  Albyn's  Anthology,"  published  in  1816  and  edited  by  Alexander  Campbell.  The  air  has 
been  traced  by  Chappel,  the  English  writer  on  song  literature,  to  an  old  English  song 
entitled  "  In  January  last,"  in  a  play  of  D'Urfey's  called  "  The  Fond  Husband ;  or  the 
Plotting  Sisters,"  which  was  acted  in  1676. 

Andante  Moderato. 


.  Why  weep     ye       by       the   tide,      la    -dye?  Why  weep    ye       by       the    tide?  I'll 

.  Now  let       this     wil    -    fu'  grief      be     done,  And  dry      that     cheek    so     pale;  You 


Young 


wed        ye       to       my    young  -  est      son,  And     ye    shall       be        his       bride. 
Frank       is      chief      of      Err  -    ing  -  ton,   And    lord      of       Lang  -  ly    -    dale. 


And 
His 


372 


OUli    FAMILIAR    SONGS. 


ye       shall  be        his    bride,    )a    -    dre,    Sae     come  -ly  to       be        seen;  But 

itep        is    first       in    peace  -  ful       ha',    His    sword    in          bat  -tie        keen;  But 


step 


A  chain  o'  gold  ye  shall  not  lack, 

Nor  braid  to  bind  your  hair, 
Nor  mettled  hound,  nor  managed  hawk, 

Nor  palfrey  fresh  and  fair ; 
And  you,  the  foremost  o'  them  a', 

Shall  ride  our  forest  queen  — 
But  aye  she  loot  the  tears  down  fa', 

For  Jock  o'  Hazeldean. 


The  kirk  was  decked  at  morning  tide. 

The  taper  glimmered  fair, 
The  priest  and  bridegroom  wait  the  bride, 

And  dame  and  knight  are  there. 
They  sought  her  baith  by  bower  and  ha', 

The  lady  was  not  seen ; 
She's  o'er  the  border  and  awa' 

Wi'  Jock  o'  Hazeldean. 


JESSIE,   THE   FLOWER   O'   DUMBLANE. 

ROBERT  TANNAHILL  was  the  author  of  this  beautiful  song.  The  last  stanza,  beginning 
"  How  lost  were  my  days  till  I  met  with  my  Jessie,"  was  not  in  the  original  song,  and  it  is 
so  commonplace  that  it  is  difficult  to  believe  Tannahill  added  it. 

The  heroine  of  the  song  has  been  much  speculated  about.  Each  Jessie,  in  the  old 
town,  had  the  honor  of  being  represented  as  the  "  blooming  fair."  Dumblane  lay  upon  a 
celebrated  and  picturesque  stage-route,  and  we  can  fancy  the  quieter  rolling  of  the  rumbling 
wheels,  and  the  louder  rolling  of  the  driver's  voice,  who,  with  his  long  whip,  used  to  point  out 
to  each  fresh  load  of  sight-seeking  and  story-loving  passengers,  the  humble  cottage  where 
the  tiny  bud,  that  became  the  far-famed  "  flower  o'  Dumblane/'  unfolded  to  the  light.  One 
enthusiastic  traveller  published  an  account  of  his  interview  with  the  bonnie  lassie,  then  a 
decidedly  plain  old  lady.  Alas !  for  the  truthfulness  of  this  historian.  Jessie  was  but  a 
poet's  dream.  Tannahill  never  was  in  Dumblane ;  had  he  been,  he  would  have  known 
that  from  there  the  sun  could  not  be  seen  going  down  "  o'er  the  lofty  Ben  Lomond."  The 
only  fancies  of  the  poet's  short  life  were  for  two  young  women  of  his  native  town  of  Paisley. 

The  exquisite  air  was  made  by  KOBERT  ARCHIBALD  SMITH,  who  is  celebrated  as  a 
composer,  and  student  of  Scottish  airs,  of  which  he  made  some  of  the  sweetest.  He  set 
gome  of  Tannahill's  best  songs.  He  was  bora  at  Reading,  Berkshire,  England,  November 
16,  1780,  and  died  in  Edinburgh,  January  3,  1829. 


JESSIE,   THE  FLOWER   0'  DUMBLANE. 


373 


Andante* 


XL  #  fi   *3  : 

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a  i        h          ~  —  f*~i 

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«J                                                                                                           *    -*- 

1.    The     sun    has  gane  down  o'er  the     loft-   y  Ben  -  Lo-mond,  And     left     the  red  clouds  to   pre- 
2.  She's    mod  -  est   as      o  -  ny,  and  blithe    as  she's  bon  -  nie,    For    guile-  less  sim  -  pli  -  ci  -  ty 
3.  How     lost  were  my  days  till     I       met      wi'  my  Jes  -  sie  !   The  sports    o'  the     ci  -  ty  seem'd 

Z      tf    0  •jZH—a..-     '  =i  -2  *  a  —            '  =  fe  1  —       —f5—  1 

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the  scene;    While      lane  -  ly    I  stray  in   the     calm 
its     ain;       And        far      be  the    vil-lain,  di  -  vest 
and  vain  ;         I          ne'er  saw  a  nymph  I  would    ca' 

J                                1                         H                                        «•           J           W               H 

sim-mer  gloam-in'      To 
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sweet   Jes  -  sie,     the    flow'r    of  Dum-blane.       How  sweet       is     the    brier  wi'    its 
Its   bloom  the  sweet  flow'r    o'   Dum-blane.        Sing     on,      thou  sweet  mav  -  is,  thy 
sweet  Jes  -  sie,     the    flow'r    o'   Dum-blane.        Tho'  mine    were  the      sta-  tion    of 

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saft    fauld-ing    bios  -  som,  And  sweet     is       the     birk     wi'      its     man  -  tie      o'  green;  But 
hymn    to       the      e'e  -  nln',  Thou'rt  dear    to       the      ech-oes       of      Cal  -  der-  wood  glen;  Sae 
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374 


OUR  FAMILIAR  SONGS. 


sweet-  er  and  fair  -  er,  and  dear  to  this  bo  -  som,  Is  love  -  ly  young  Jes  -  sie,  the 
dear  to  this  bo-  som,  sae  art  -  less  and  win-  ning,  Is  charm  -  ing  young  Jes  -  sie,  the 
reck-  on  as  naething  the  height  o*  its  splen-  dor,  If  want  -  ing  sweet  Jes  -  sie,  the 


/EE      -f-r-  -nr-  i  j 

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1  •  ff  *  ff  - 

• 

f  •           -r1  J  1  J\  ^  j*  jt  j'.  •--'-  —  b  —  *—  b~  *-f- 

flow'r     o'  Dum-blane,           Is         love  -  ly  young  Jes  -  sie.        Is           love  -  ly  young  Jes-sie, 
flow'r     o'  Dum-blane,           Is      charm-  ing  young  Jes  -  sie,        Is         charm-ing  young  Jes-sie, 
flow'r     o'  Dum-blane,           If       want  -  ing  sweet  Jes  -  sie,        If          want-  ing  sweet  Jes-sie, 

Qfl  i  —  N  K  1  &*—  T-  —      —  —  —  (v  1  —  1  ^—^  

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love  -  ly  young  Jessie,  the  flow'r  o'  Dumblane. 
charming  young  Jessie,  the  flow'r  o'  Dumblane. 
want  -ing  sweet  Jessie,  the  flow'r  o'  Dumblane. 


fe 


n 


MEET  ME  BY   MOONLIGHT. 

BOTH  the  words  and  music  of  this  song,  the  first  line  of  which  has  become  one  of  the 
most  familiar  of  all  "familiar  quotations,"  were  produced  by  J.  AUGUSTUS  WADE,  an  English 
composer,  who  died  in  London  in  1875,  aged  seventy-five.  He  was  extremely  poor,  and 
in  his  last  days  literally  went  begging  among  the  music  publishers. 


1.  Meet      me         by  moon-light       a       -    lone, And      then       I        will 

Day  -  light       may         do       for         the  gay, The      thought-less,     the 


-qzzzpzzq— |    J     i  — -X. 


'* T  -  »|- 9.— 9. 

sEE§=^ 


MEET   ME  BY  MOONLIGHT. 


375 


EE!= 


tell     you      a        tale,, 
heart-less,    the      free ; . 


Must  be         told       by       the  moon  -  light      a    - 

But  there's    some  -  thing     a       -      bout      the     moon's 


=3 — ; — ^Et 


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.^ »J         ,-*- .         ^    -.—  ..  ,,^J- 


*— *— S.-^T- £- JT^nr"* 


£          4         4  £ 4          £ 


•0 0  0 — -I 


1 


lone,, 
ray,.. 


:!=+ 


In    the     grove         at       the  end       of         the        vale;. 

That    is      sweet    -     er        to  you      and          to         me;. 


T  -j JnzzrlH-ijzzzzdzziiid 

— »— J — 0 0 —  — «i— f — 0       •   0- — -3 


3^nrnt=z<: 


r^rTrHr-r~#—r-  ^— s— * 


"-T" 


:r=tr=:3=^ 


-^ B' 


7^:: 


You  must  prom-ise       to    come,        for  I    said.. 
Ohl    re  -  mem-ber,      be    sure          to  be  there,. 


I    would  show   the    night  • 
For  though  dear-ly         a 


3 


ztv 


— — 

flow  -  ers    their    queen, 
moon-light     I        prize, . 


~^ 

Nay,       turn     not         a 
I  care      not       for 


way     that      sweet 
all        in       the 


stacc 


r™       ^i        r"  _  i      i 


376 


OUK    FAMILIAR    SONGS. 


head!, 
air,. 


'Tis      the       lov     -    li     -    est  ev    -     er       was  seen!. 

If        I         want       the     sweet      light       of     your  eyes!. 


Oh!    meet       me      by    moon  -  light      a    -    lone, 
So     meet       me       by    moon  -  light      a    -    lone 


JL 

^?\ 

J  _  (^  

y  ft 

1              ,->  .  .                      .    i          .     _i 

9f           -Jj 

Meet        me           by            moon   -  light         a 

lone! 
-1__|___N  __ 

=j_        +    =£-        E^ 

r<z//. 

f~    f          f              f 

i=5h  -i-   -i—  jz  -s  -  _, 

" 

-4  -•••'-                                                                                          "^                                                             •                     .       -                       j                  ,                                                                           .                —                  ^-—  .J                                          •!     X- 

—  •      _J  i  —  1  —  ^  

SAW  YE  MY  WEE  THING? 

HECTOR  MACNEILL,  author  of  the  words  of  this  song,  was  born  into  an  old  and  honored 
Scottish  family.  His  father,  a  retired  army  officer  at  the  time  of  Hector's  birth,  was  living 
in  a  beautiful  villa  near  Kosliii,  amidst  charming  scenery.  While  Hector  was  quite  young, 
his  father's  finances  became  involved,  and  the  family  removed  to  a  farm  on  the  pictur- 
esque shore  of  Loch  Lomond.  Hector  wrote  poems  and  dramas  when  very  young.  His 
father  was  not  without  discernment  of  the  boy's  talent,  and  pride  in  its  exhibitions ;  but 
want  of  money  compelled  him  to  deny  him  the  education  he  wanted.  A  rich  relative 
offered  to  make  the  boy's  fortune,  and  so  the  studious  lad  was  pushed  into  a  career  which 
proved  utterly  uncongenial  and  unsatisfactory.  He  was  shipped  to  the  Island  of  St.  Chris- 
topher's, with  a  view  to  showing  how  much  sailor  there  was  in  him  j  but  he  was  provided 
with  letters  to  present,  in  case  he  did  not  wish  to  re-ship,  after  landing  there.  He  took 
advantage  of  the  alternative,  and  found  employment  there  for  a  year.  That  failing,  he 


SAW    YE    .171"     \YEE 


377 


sailed  for  Guadaloupe,  where  he  remained  three  years  with  an  employer  who  turned  him 
off  with  a  small  amount,  when,  in  1763,  the  island  was  ceded  to  the  French.    With  diffi- 
culty he  reached  Antigua,  where,  reduced  to  utter  penury,  he  worked  a  short  time  for  a 
relative,  with  no  recompense  whatever.    His  general  culture  and  abilities,  with  his  know- 
ledge of  the  French  language,  rescued  him  from  this,  and  he  became  assistant  to  the 
Provost-Marshal  of  Grenada,  for  three  years.    On  receiving  news  of  the  death  of  his 
mother  and  sister,  he  returned  to  Scotland.     His  father  died  soon  after,  leaving  him  a  little 
property.    This  he  invested  in  an  annuity  of  £80,  upon  which  small  sum  he  hoped  to  be 
able  to  stay  at  home.     But  difficulty  in  obtaining  even  this,  and  an  unfortunate  attachment, 
sent  him  out  again  upon  the  ocean.    As  assistant-secretary  on  board  a  flag-ship  he  made 
two  cruises,  when  he  turned  homeward ;  but  he  was  persuaded  to  accept  a  position  upon 
the  flag-ship  of  Sir  Richard  Brinkerton,  commander  of  the  naval  forces  in  India.    In  this 
position  he  suffered  great  hardships,  and  was  in  some  naval  engagements.    He  remained 
three  years,  though  sick  almost  to  death  of  his  wanderings.    He  longed  for  quiet,  and 
literary  pleasures,  and,  although  he  had  little  money,  he  again  attempted  the  experiment 
of  supporting  himself  in  Scotland  by  his  pen.    He  fixed  his  abode  in  a  farm-house  near 
Stirling,  where   he  composed  diligently;    but  the  slow-moving  booksellers,  and  ready 
critics,  proved  too  much  for  his  patient  industry.    He  must  live,  even  though  he  wrote 
verses,  and  when  the  bottom  of  his  purse  was  reached,  he  set  sail  once  more.    On  a  voyage 
to  the  island  of  Jamaica,  he  engaged  himself  to  a  collector  of  customs,  who,  finding  after- 
Ward  that  he  could  dispense  with  the  poet's  services,  dismissed  him  forthwith.    Disheartened 
and  homesick,  he  turned  toward  his  native  hills  again.    These  he  reached,  with  no  money 
in  his  pocket,  but  a  poem  which  he  had  written  during  the  voyage,  entitled,  "  The  Harp, 
«,  Legendary  Tale."    This  was  published,  but  brought  him  no  money.    He  lived  with  rela- 
tives, writing,  until  he  was  seized  with  a  nervous  disease  which  for  six  years  rendered 
him  incapable  of  physical  exertion.     When  he  recovered,  he  produced  nearly  all  his  best 
songs,  and  began  at  last  to  realize  his  dream.     One  poem  gave  him  wide  reputation,  and 
went  through  fourteen  editions  in  a  year,  and  the  one  following  was  equally  popular.     He 
now  went  to  Jamaica  to  recover  health,  and  the  light  heart  which  he  carried  greatly 
assisted  him.      A  friend  in  Jamaica  settled  upon  him  an  annuity  of  £100,  and  he  returned 
to  Scotland,  to  leave  it  no  more.     He  established  himself  in  Edinburgh,  received  some 
legacies,  wrote  constantly,  and  was  soon  living  in  affluence,  courted  by  fashion  and 
culture.    There  was  now  but  one  drawback  to  his  happiness — he  was  old.    He  writes, 
January  30,  1813:    "Accumulating  years  and  infirmities  are  beginning  to  operate  very 
sensibly  upon  me  now,  and  yearly  do  I  experience  their  increasing  influence.    Both  my 
hearing  and  my  sight  are  considerably  weakened,  and,  should  I  live  a  few  years  longer,  I 
look  forward  to  a  state  which,  with  all  our  love  of  life,  is  certainly  not  to  be  envied."    Five 
years  later,  March  15,  1818,  when  seventy-one  years  old,  his  strange,  wandering  life  closed 
in  peacefulness  and  hope. 


IL 

J. 

K  N  1 

tfft    Q.            k_                   fc_              1               1 

*—  **1  ..      :! 

—  JV  -}?—  ^  ±~ 

P  4^  

W          m 

-J         =J     =J             .        L_J 

1.  Oh,  saw  ye  my  1 
2.  I  saw  na  your 

svee           thing? 
wee           thing, 

| 

*  •    -    •    0        j 

saw             ye     my       ain 
saw             na    your     ain 

1  —  r~        —  h  —  r~ 

thing? 
thing  ;   Nor 

^                  £             "4-     1 

w/  ^ 

1  ' 
—  J  -I 

=*r=ff 

.                        j      j 

,  -I--1 

1  1  _!  

378 


OUR    FAMILIAR    SOXGS. 


^ I --^ ^. __^_ 

^ ^-'"~   ~  ^ T  ^^  ~^^  ~^  — — W 


Saw      ye    my       true       love,  down     by    yon    lea?  Cross'd  she    the      mea-dow,     yes - 

saw       I    your     true       love    down     by    yon    lea ;      But  I       met  a       bon  -  nie       thing 


dbs: 


-  treen 
late 


at  the    gloain-in'? 
in  the    gloam  -in', 


Sought    she      the     bur  -  nie    whar  flow'rs  the  haw-tree?      Her 
Down      by      the     bur  -  nie    whar  flow'rs  the  haw-tree?      Her 


o  it                                *                            *» 

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hair       it      is       lint-white,  her 
hair       it    was     lint-white,  her 

skin        it    is      milk-white, 
skin        it  was    milk-white, 

Dark     is       the    blue        o'  her 
Dark    was    the    blue        o'  her 

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saft, 
saft, 


roll  -  ing     e'e, 
roll  -  ing     e'e, 


Bed,    red     her    ripe    lips,    and  sweet   -  er    than    ro   -  sesl 
Red   were    her    ripe    lips,    and  sweet    -  er    than    ro   -  ses! 


8 


-P      r 


Whar  could  my    wee  thing  hae    wan-  der'dfrae  me? 
Sweet  were    the    kiss  -  es   that    she       ga'e  to      me ! 


SAW    YE  MY    WEE    THING  f 


379 


It  was  na  my  wee  thing,  it  was  na  my  ain  thing, 
It  was  na  my  true  love  ye  met  by  the  tree  : 

Proud  is  her  leal  heart,  an'  modest  her  nature, 

.    She  never  lo'ed  ony  till  ance  she  lo'ed  me. 

Her  name  it  is  Mary,  she's  frae  Castle-Cary; 
Aft  has  she  sat,  when  a  bairn,  on  my  knee : 

Fair  as  your  face  is,  wer't  fifty  times  fairer, 
Young  bragger,  she  ne'er  wad  gi'e  kisses   to 
thee. 

It  was,  then,  your  Mary,  she's  frae  Castle-Cary, 
It   was,  then,   your   true    love,    I    met  by   the 
tree  ; 

Proud  as  her  heart  is,  and  modest  her  nature, 
Sweet  were  the  kisses  that  she  ga'e  to  me. 


Sair  gloomed  his  dark  brow,  blood-red  his  cheek 

grew, 

And  wild  flash'd  the  fire  frae  his  red-rolling  e'e; 
Ye'se  rue  sair  this  morning  your  boasts  and  your 

scorning  ! 
Defend  ye,  fause  traitor,  fu'  loudly  ye  lie  ! 

Awa'  wi'  beguiling,  cried  the  youth,  smiling  ;  — 

Aff  went  the  bonnet,  the  lint-white  locks  flee  ; 
The  belted  plaid  fa'ing,  her  white  bosom  shawing, 

Fair  stood  the  lov'd  maid  wi'  the  dark,  rolling  e'e 
Is  it  my  wee  thing  ?  is  it  my  ain  thing  ? 

Is  it  my  true  love  here  that  I  see  ? 
O  Jamie,  forgi'e  me,  your  heart's  constant  to  me, 

I'll  never  mair  wander,  dear  laddie,  frae  thee! 


THE   ROSE  OF  ALLANDALE. 

THIS  simple,  familiar,  Scottish-sounding  ditty  was  written  by  CHARLES  JEFPERYS,  and 
the  music  was  composed  by  his  friend  SIDNEY  NELSON. 


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when      my   fev  -   ered       lips     were  parched,  On      Af  -   ric's  burn-ing     sand, 


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sol   -    ace      still      was         she       to 
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far  the  sweet  -  est  flow  -  er  there.  Was  the  Eose  of 
maid  -  en  form  with  -  stood  the  storm,  'Twas  the  Rose  of 
fate  not  linked  my  lot  to  hers,  The  Rose  of 


Al  -  Ian  -  dale.  Was  the 
Al  -  Ian  -  dale.  'Twas  the 
Al  -  Ian  -  dale.  The 


^ 


380 


OUR    FAMILIAR 


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Rose           of         Al    -     Ian    -        dale,           the    Rose          of 
Rose           of        Al    -     Ian    -       dale,           the   Rose          of 
Rose           of        Al    -     Ian    -       dale,           the   Rose          of 

Al     -     Ian    - 
Al     -     Ian    - 
Al     -     Ian    - 

c)  • 

dale, 
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far       the      sweet  -   est        flow   -    er      there,    Was     the 
maid  -    en      form     with  -   stood      the     storm,  'Twas   the 
fate       not      linked     my        fate        to        hers,          The 

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Rose       of       Al 
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KIND   ROBIN   LO'ES   ME. 

THIS  song  first  appeared  in  David  Herd's  collection  of  Scottish  melodies,  in  1776.    The 
original  was  a  coarse  old  song,  but  the  new  words  were  adapted  to  modern  ideas  of  decency. 
Moderate. 


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—  *-•  -  ^3-*  -  -                   IX  

1.    On,       Rob-  in      is       my       on   -    ly     joo,      For       Rob-  in     has     the        art     to     lo'e  ;     So 
2.    He's       tall  and  son  -  ey,    frank     and  free,     He's      loe'd  by     a',     and      dear    to     me;    Wi' 
3.    But        lit  -  tie  kens     she     what    has   been,     Me        and  my   hou  -  est       Rob   be-tween,  And 

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lo'es       me.        Oh, 
lo'es       me.        My 
lo'es       me.      Then 

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r: 


hap  -   py,    hap   -   py       was     the  show'r   That      led       me       to      his     birk  -     en  bow'r, Where 
jis   -   ter     Ma    -    ry       said      to      me,       Our    court  -  ship     but        a      joke       wad  be,       And 
fly,       ye       la    -    zy      hours,    a  -  way,      And    hast   -   en       on      the     hap   -     py  day,    When, 


i 


KIND    If  OB  IN  LOPES    ME. 


381 


y  *  f  —  rT  1      i  f  •  - 

i*~^s   j              ~3n  —  ' 

i  —  -  —  is  —  j*  —  s=Sk'  —  r~&  —      rn 

first       of     love          I 
I         ere     lang       be 
"join    your  hands,"  Mess 

LLJ  J  ^j~  .rp  i  '  •  «<  —  i  —  fcj  1  1     j  n 

fand      the  pow'r,     And    kenn'd    that    Rob  -    in           lo'ed       me. 
made      to       see       That       Rob  -    in       did   -   na            lo'e         me. 
John     shall    say,       And  •  make     him    mine     that          lo'es       me. 

p     i  i 

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j_        i  

—  ^  —  •  —  ~     \  P      -H 

I   LO'ED   NE'ER   A   LADDIE   BUT  ANE. 

THE  first  stanza  of  this  song,  was  written  by  KEY.  JOHN  CHENTE,  minister  of  Borthwick 
in  Mid-Lothian,  who  died  in  1819,  at  the  age  of  sixty-two.  The  remaining  four  stanzas 
were  written  by  HECTOR  MACNEILL.  The  air  is  an  adaptation  of  the  Irish  melody,  "  My 
lodging  is  on  the  cold  ground." 


1.  I       lo'e     na    a      lad -die   but    ane,. 

2.  Let    ith  -  ers  bragweel  o'  their  gear,. 


He    lo'es    na     a     las  -  sie    but    me; He's 

Their  land,  and  their  lord-ly     de  -  gree, I 


will-in' to   make  me    his    ain, Andhis      ain     I        am  will  -  in'   to 

care  na  for  ought  but   my    dear, For  he's      il  -  ka  thing  lord  •  ly    to 


beTT.         He 
me....       His 


-p^-i — I— HN — I • 


coft    me   a    roke-lay   o'        blue,., 
words  mair  than  su  -  gar  are     sweet,. 


And  a         pair    o'    mit  -tenso'        green;  He 

His        sense  drives  il    -   ka  fear     far    a  -  wa' ;  I 


382 


OUR  FAMILIAR  SONQS. 


And  I    plight  -  ed  my     troth     yes  -    tret 
Yet  how  sweet  are  the    tears  as  they      fa'  1 


vow'd  that  he'd  ev  -  er     be 
lis  -  ten,  poor  fool,  and    I 


"  Dear  lassie,"  he  cries  wi'  a  jeer, 

"  Ne'er  heed  what  the  auld  anes  will  say. 
Though  we've  little  to  brag  o',  ne'er  fear ; 

What's  gowd  to  a  heart  that  is  wae  ? 
Our  laird  hath  baith  honors  and  wealth. 

Yet  see  how  he's  dwining  wi'  care ; 
Now  we,  though  we've  naething  but  health, 

Are  cantie  and  leal  evermair. 

"  O,  Menie !  the  heart  that  is  true, 

Has  something  mair  costly  than  gear; 

Ilk  e'en  it  has  naething  to  rue, 
Ilk  morn  it  has  naething  to  fear. 


Yewarldlings,  gae  hoard  up  your  store, 
And  tremble  for  fear  aught  ye  tyne  ; 

Guard  your  treasures  wi'  lock,  bar  and  door, 
True  love  is  the  guardian  of  mine." 

He  ends  wi'  a  kiss  an'  a  smile, 

Wae's  me,  can  I  take  it  amiss  ? 
My  laddie's  unpractised  in  guile, 

He's  free  aye  to  daut  and  to  kiss ! 
Ye  lasses  wha  lo'e  to  torment 

Your  wooers  wi'  fause  scorn  and  strife, 
Play  your  pranks  —  I  hae  gi'en  my  consent, 

And  this  night  I'm  Jamie's  for  life. 


MARY  OF  ARGYLE. 

THE  words  of  "Mary  of  Argyle"  were  written  by  CHARLES  JEFFERYS,  and  the  melody 
was  composed  by  SIDNEY  NELSON. 


fc|                  -~0        -%    -f<    :*  —  j;  —  I* 

•*      -4 

^-f—  *^—  :  i-             =-rz*-d 

1.    I       have  heard   the  mav-is   sing  -ing, 
2.  Tho'  thy    voice     may  lose    its  sweetness 

His           love-song   to        the  mom  ;        I       have 
And  thine  eye    its    bright  -  ness  too  ;        Tho'  thy 

(^          r       i      r 

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&  L.  ?  1  0  1—f—.  5  ^Zj_tl_r  0.  -^JL  «  0  =  =  1 

seen     the    dew    drop     cling  -ing,               To    the    rose       just    new-   ly       born;        But       a 
step     may  lack      its       fleet-ness,              And  thy     hair       its      sun  -    ny        hue  ;        Still       to 

^  f         •*         i        r 

hi  — 

•*•               •*• 

.._,  —     ..          ,.  .                        . 

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MARY    OF    ARGYLE. 


383 


sweet   -  er     song      has    cheer'dme, 
me        wilt    thou      be       dear  -  er, 


At  the     eve  -  nlng's  gen  -  tie    close;  And  I've 

Than       all       the  world  shall    own;  I    have 


r'  r'       f        it 

:;==:^=fl«: 


seen      an    eye,      still    brighter, 
lov'd   thee   for       thy     beau-ty, 


N JS . JS-  ^     ]      I        "** 

' '      -L-H— =V- -1- tX >—  ' 


•P 

Than  the    dew   -  drop      on       the      rose;       'Twas    thy 
But  not  for    that        a    -  lone;  I       have 

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M  a  tempo. 

i     ":-M      !     i_    f  *•  »•  *    m       s»       *_•  JL— 

voice,    my  gen  -    tie    Ma  -  ry,                And  thine    art    -  less    win  -  ning    smile.                 That 
watch'd  thy  heart    dear  Ma  -  ry,                And    its    good  -  ness    was     the      wile'.               That  has 

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ad  lib. 


made      this  world       an  E    -   den,      Bon   -  ny 

made    thee  mine        for    -     ev    -    er,       Bon   -  ny 


Ma   -  ry 
Ma   -  ry 


of. 
of. 


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Ar  -gyle I 
Ar  -gyle! 


384 


fjL'li   FAMILIAR   SONGS. 

THE   BIRKS   OF   ABERFELDY. 


THIS  song  was  written  by  BURNS,  for  the  Museum,  in  September,  17S7,  while  visiting 
the  falls  of  Moness,  near  Aberfeldy,  in  Perthshire.  The  poet  and  his  friend,  William  Nicol, 
were  there  on  a  tour  in  the  Highlands.  There  was  an  old  song,  called  "  The  Birks  of 
Abergeldy,"  which  had  these  stanzas : 


Bonnie  Lassie,  will  ye  go, 
Will  ye  go,  will  ye  go, 
Bonnie  Lassie,  will  ye  go, 

To  the  birks  of  Abergeldy? 
Ye  sail  get  a  gown  of  silk, 
A  gown  of  silk,  a  gown  of  silk, 
Ye  sail  get  a  gown  of  silk, 

And  a  coat  of  callimankei. 


Na,  kind  sir,  I  daur  na  gang, 
I  daur  na  gang.  I  daur  na  gang, 
Na,  kind  sir.  I  daur  na  gang, 

My  minnie  wad  be  angry. 
Sair,  sair  wad  she  flyte, 
Wad  she  flyte,  wad  she  flyte ; 
Sair,  sair,  wad  she  flyte, 

And  sair,  sair  would  she  ban  me. 


The  air,  which  appeared  in  Playford's  "  Dancing  Master,"  in  1657,  is  there  called  "  A 
Scotch  ayre." 


Bon  -  nie    las  -    sie,    will       ye       go,          Will       ye       go,  will     ye          go, 


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Bon  -    nie   las  -  sie,    will        ye    [go       To   the 

Ah  j       j       ]          J    i 

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sim  -  mer  blinks  on     flow-  'rv  braes,     And    o'er       the  crys  -  tal     stream-  let    plays,  Come 
o'er     their  heads  the       ha-  zels   hing,     The      lit    -     tie   bird-  ies     blythe  -    ly     sing,      Or 
as-cend   like     loft  -    y     wa's,     The   foam  -  ing  stream  deep     roar  -  ing     fa's,     O'er- 

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385 

K                                    -I        * 

-f-.  -  *  *  ,  =fe=  =B 

let          us  spend   the    light  -  some  davs     In    the    birks       of      A    -    ber   -    fel    -     dv 
light   -    ly     flit       on    wan  -  ton  wing      In    the    birks       of      A"  -    ber   -    fel     -     dv 
hung       wi'   f  ra  -  grant  spread  -  ing  shaws,     The       birks       of      A    -    ber   -    fel     -     dy.' 

K-7  ~  1                     : 

j"  —  "H"  —     —  "w"  — 

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—  *H  5-H 

^•^-B-    r    

VI  1  

__  f         *  

'V  1 

^-r= 

*The  hoary  cliffs  are  crowned  wi'  flowers, 
White  o'er  the  linns  the  burnie  pours, 
And,  rising,  weets  wi'  misty  showers 
The  birks  of  Aberfeldy. 

Bonnie  lassie,  etc. 


*Let  fortune's  gifts  at  random  flee, 
They  ne'er  shall  draw  a  wish  frae  me, 
Supremely  blest  wi'  love  and  thee 
In  the  birks  of  Aberfeldy. 

Bonnie  lassie,  etc. 


THE   LASS   O'   PATIE'S   MILL. 

ALLAN  EAMSAY  was  visiting  the  Earl  of  London ;  and  one  day,  when  they  were  walk- 
ing together  by  the  banks  of  Irvine  water,  at  a  place  called  Patie's  Mill,  both  were  struck 
by  the  appearance  of  a  beautiful  country-girl.  The  Earl  remarked  that  she  would  make  a 
fine  subject  for  a  song.  Ramsay  stayed  behind  when  they  returned  to  the  castle,  and  at 
dinner  produced  this  song. 

The  air  is  known  to  be  at  least  as  old  as  the  middle  of  the  seventeenth  century. 


Andantino. 


m 


1.  The      lass       o'"    Pa-  tie'a       mill, 

2.  With-  out      the     aid       of         art,... 

3.  Oh,       had       I       a'       the       wealth. 


Sae      bon  -  nie,  blithe,  and 

Like  flow'rs  that  grace     the 

Hope-  toun's  high  mount  -  ains 


gay, 
wild, 
fill, 


In 

She 

In- 


f 


dolce. 


E*£NNj3f? 


e$ 


spite   of    a'    my        skill,, 
did  her  sweets  im  -  part. 
-sured  long  life  and    health . 


She  stole  my  heart  a  -  way.  When  ted  -  din'  o'  the 
When  -  e'er  she  spoke  or  smiled,  Her  looks  they  were  so 
And  pleas- ure  at  my  will,  I'd  prom-ise  and  ful- 


Si 


*     & 


(25) 


hay,, 
mild, 


OUR   FAMILIAR   SONGfi. 


Bare  -  head  -  ed  on  the 
Free  from  af  -  feet  ed 
That  none  but  bon .,  -  nie 


green, 
pride, 
she, 


Love 
She 
The 


'midst  her  locks  did 
me  to  love  be- 
lass  of  Pa  -  tie's 


j-£-5 

2^  

.     n-r  . 

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1  "  1 

plav,           An'       wan   -    ton'd    in        he 
guiled;         I        wfsh'd       her    for       mj 
mill,       Should    share        the    same      foi 

r 
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brie 
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, 
le. 

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5^3 

THE    LEA    RIG. 

THIS  song,  by  BURNS,  was  written  for  an  air  called  "  The  Lea  Big."    The  original  song, 
which  is  poor,  contained  but  two  stanzas,  and  was  written  by  EGBERT  FERGUSSON. 


1.  Wlien  o'er     the     hill      the    east  -  era  star    Tells   bught  -  in' time  is    near,     my     jo;     And 

2.  In      mirk  -  est    glen,     at     mid  -  night  hour,  I'd      rove,    and  ne'er  be      e    -   cne,    O,       If 

3.  The     bun  -  ter     lo'es    the    morn  -  ing  sun,    To     rouse    the  mountain  deer,  my     jo ;        At 


ow  -  sen    free     the     fur  -  row'd  field,     Re 
through  that  glen       I      gard       to   thce,     My 
noon    the     fish  -  er     seeks     the  glen,      A 


turn      sac    dawf   and     wea  -  ry,       O;  Down 

ain kind dca  -  ne,        O,      Al  • 

long     the    burn      to      steer    my       jo;    Gi'e 


$z=zt 


-4: 


THE  LEA   BIG. 


38? 


by        the    burn,  where  scent  -  ed        birks  Wi'      dew    are      hang  -  ing    clear,    my     jo;        I'll 

-  though  the    night  were    ne'er     sae      wild,  And      I       were    ne'er     sae     wea  -   ry,      O,        I'd 

me        the     hour    o'       gloam  -  in'      gray,    It       rank's  my    heart     sae    chee  -  rie,      O,        To 


-t — 0 — > — » — F — • 

^0 — ( * — I 1-—. _ 

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\          \          \ 

THE   BRAES   O'   BALQUHIDDER. 

As  touching  and  sweet  as  the  songs  he  wrote,  but  far  sadder,  is  the  story  of  EGBERT 
TANNAHILL.  He  was  born  June  3,  1777,  in  Paisley,  Scotland;  and,  like  his  father,  was  a 
weaver  at  its  famous  looms.  His  mother  possessed  a  poetic  temperament,  of  which  her 
fourth  child  inherited  a  double  portion.  He  was  a  sweet  and  kindly  boy,  loved  by  all  his 
schoolfellows.  Lameness  in  early  life,  added  to  a  natural  delicacy  of  constitution,  made 
him  averse  to  the  rough  games  of  his  mates,  and,  while  they  were  romping,  he  sat  on  the 
play-ground,  making  rhymed  riddles  for  them  to  guess  in  calmer  moments,  or  little  verses 
to  amuse  himself.  He  loved  music  intensely,  and  earned  pocket-money  by  playing  the  fife 
at  the  Greenock  parades.  He  was  also  master  of  the  flute.  After  his  simple  education 
was  acquired,  and  he  was  at  daily  work,  whenever  he  could  find  an  old  or  obscure  air 
which  pleased  him,  he  fastened  it  to  his  loom,  and  composed  original  verses  to  suit  it.  He 
was  an  eager  reader  of  poetry,  but  did  not  dream  of  becoming  a  great  song- writer ;  he 
wrote  to  relieve  the  tameness  of  his  employment,  and  read  his  work  only  to  his  little 
brother. 

Taunahill  wrote  of  love,  but  he  knew  it  only  through  the  grief  it  brought  him.  Jean 
King,  the  sister  of  a  poet  of  his  native  town,  was  his  first  fancy.  Years  after  she  had 
married  another  wooer,  her  son  used  to  say  his  mother  always  "  feared  that  Rob  would 
write  a  song  about  her,"  but  he  seems  never  to  have  considered  her  worthy  of  his  lyre. 

His  next  sweetheart,  and  his  last,  was  also  a  poet's  sister,  Mary  Allan.  Whatever  was 
the  unknown  motive  which  kept  her  from  brightening  his  life,  love  does  not  seem  to  have 
been  wanting ;  for  many  years  she  could  not  restrain  her  tears  and  lamentations  at  the 
mention  of  her  lost  lover's  name. 


388 


OUR   FAMILIAE   SONGS. 


ROBERT  ARCHIBALD  SMITH  lived  in  Paisley  for  a  time,  and  meeting  stray  songs  of 
Tannahill's,  and  appreciating  their  beauty,  while  their  author  was  unknown  to  him, 
he  wrote  music  for  some  of  them,  which  became  popular  at  once.  This  led  to  an  invitation 
to  Tannahill  to  contribute  to  a  metropolitan  periodical,  and  later,  to  the  publication  of  a 
volume  of  "Poems  and  Songs."  Many  of  the  latter  became  widely  known.  TaimahilFs 
heart  had  now  learned  to  "  beat  high  for  praise,"  and  he  wrote  and  re-wrote  with  care. 
But  those  that  held  the  keys  to  present  fame  refused  to  turn  them  for  the  sweetest  song- 
writer who  had  knocked  since  the  bard  of  Ayr;  and  when,  disappointed  and  disheartened, 
ho  turned  away,  a  gloom  settled  down  upon  his  spirit  which  forbade  any  further  intellect- 
ual effort.  At  this  time  the  Ettrick  Shepherd  made  a  journey  to  Paisley  on  purpose  to 
form  his  acquaintance.  The  poets  passed  a  happy  night  together,  and  on  parting,  Tannahill 
said,  "  Farewell,  we  shall  never  meet  again.  Farewell,  I  shall  never  see  you  more !" 

He  showed  symptoms  of  mental  disorder,  and  early  one  morning,  when  he  \vas  but 
thirty-six  years  old,  he  stole  out  to  a  little  brook  that  had  often  rippled  to  his  more  musical 
thoughts,  and  in  its  mossy  bed — 

"  The  poor  heart,  in  this  vale  of  sorrow, 

By  the  storms  of  life  beat  sore, 
Lay  down  to  a  happier  morrow, 
On  the  couch  where  it  beat  no  more." 

Allegro. 


§ 


1.  Let       us       go, 

2.  I         will  twine 


las  -    sie,       go  To 

thee       a       bow'r,      By 


the 
the 


braes 
clear 


of       Bal  -quhidder,  "Where  the 
sil   -    ler    fountain,  And     I'll 


i  i  <s 

'  n  ^ 

4t- 

~* 

—  •' 

—  '' 

i 

^-r  g^  ^ ^    \s        j  ^  _^ i^ 


biae  -  ber-ries    grow, 'Mang  the     bon  -  nie  High-land  heather ;  "Where  the      deer         and    the 
cov    -    er       it       o'er      Wi'     the    flow  -  era  o'      the    mountain;    I      will      range  through  the 


3^ 


rae,    Light  -  ly    bound  -ing     to  •  geth  -  er,  Sport    the      lang        sim  -  mer    day        'Mang    the 
wilds,    And    the    deep  glens    so      drea-ry,    And     re-    turn       wi'     the     spoils        To       the 


THE   BRAES    0'    BALQUHWDEB. 
animate. 


389 


—  0  —         —  js-|—  *<  —  s  N—  —  R- 

3       '    -  -   P    " 

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3 

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l_     |: 

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0      •                 ^1 

braes 
bower 

o'    Bal-quhidder.  Will    ye       go,          las    - 
o'    my    dearie.     Will    ye       go,         las    - 

-*— 
sie, 
sie, 

go        To       the    braes 
go        To       the    braes 

o'       Bal  - 
o'       Bal  - 

-H- 

-i  —  S3§  i  r~ 

~  «  j-T- 

—  «  — 

—I- 

—  •  

*-r— 

42- 

1 
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—  *  — 

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1^  ^\  •  ' 

r\  ^j                      — 



,  —  |  ,  

F  1  

^  — 

•=-•  

-=»•  

1 

-    quhidder,  Where  the      blae    -     ber  -    ries  grow,     'Mang    the      bon  -  nie     bloomin'    heather? 


___!_ 


^^ — ==^-T— Zg— +ztr~ #~'^    ^-L^—r^-tl 


When  the  rude  wintry  win' 

Idly  raves  round  our  dwelling, 
And  the  roar  of  the  linn 

On  the  night-breeze  is  swelling ; 
Sae  merrily  we'll  sing 

As  the  storm  rattles  o'er  us, 
Till  the  dear  shieling  ring 

Wi'  the  light  lilting  chorus. 
Will  ye  go,  etc. 


Now  the  summer  is  in  prime, 

Wi'  the  flowers  richly  blooming, 
And  the  wild  mountain  thyme 

A'  the  moorlands  perfuming; 
To  our  dear  native  scenes 

Let  us  journey  together, 
Where  glad  innocence  reigns, 

'Mang  the  braes  of  Balquhidder. 
Will  ye  go,  etc. 


OH,  TAKE   HER,   BUT  BE   FAITHFUL  STILL. 
THIS  song  is  a  joint  composition  of  CHARLES  JEFFERYS  and  SIDNEY  NELSON. 


Andante  con  espress. 
& 


1.  Oh!     take      her,       but        be    faith  -  ful        still,  And      may 

2.  The      joys        of        child  -  hood's  hap  -  py        hour,  This    home 

3.  Her       lot        in       life          is     fix'd  with     thine,  Its       good 


the  bri  -  dal 
of  ri  -  per 
and  ill  to 


vow, 
years, 
share  ; 


y 

Be 

The 
And 


v         *> 

sa  -  cred  held  in  af  -  ter 
treastir-ed  scenes  of  ear  -  ly 
well  I  know  'twill  be  her 


=^£j         J      kj"*^ 


years, 
youth, 
pride 


And  warm  -  ly  breath'd  as 
In  sun  -  shine  and  in 
To  soothe  each  sor  -  row 


390 


OUR    FAMILIAR    SONOS. 


now; 
tears; 
there. 


.     ^r 

Be    -  mem  -  ber,  'tis     no    common     tie 
The       pur  -  est  hopes  her    bo  -  som  knew 
Then    take    her,    and  may  fleet  -ing   time 


I ^          r-^w 

~g- A     ij — •_  j     ^ — -i 


That  binds  her  youth  -  ful 
When  her  young  heart  was 
Mark  on  -  ly  joy's  in 


4= 


MY  WIFE'S  A  WINSOME  WEE  THING. 

BURNS  wrote  this  song  for  an  old  and  lively  tune  called  "  My  wife's  a  wanton  wea 
thing."  When  sending  it  for  publicatiou,  he  said,  in  a  letter  dated  November  8,  1792, 
"There  is  a  peculiar  rhythmus  in  many  of  our  airs,  and  a  necessity  of  adapting  syllables  to 
the  emphasis,  or  what  I  call  the  feature  notes  of  the  tune,  that  cramp  the  poet,  and  lay 
him  under  almost  insuperable  difficulties.  For  instance,  in  the  air,  '  My  wife's  a  wanton  wee 
thing,'  if  a  few  lines  smooth  and  pretty  can  be  adapted  to  it,  it  is  all  you  can  expect.  The 
following  were  made  extempore  to  it;  and  though,  on  further  study,  I  might  give  you 
something  more  profound,  yet  it  might  not  suit  the  light-horse  gallop  of  the  air,  so  well  as 
this  random  clink." 

Burns  wrote  another  song,  which  is  always  suggested  by  this  one,  although  it  is  not 
so  familiar.  These  are  the  lines : 


Bonny  wee  thing,  canny  wee  thing, 

Lovely  wee  thing,  wert  thou  mine, 
I  wad  wear  thee  in  my  bosom, 

Lest  my  jewel  I  should  tine. 
Wistfully  I  look  and  languish, 

In  that  bonnie  face  o*  thine ; 
And  my  heart  it  stounds  with  anguish, 

Lest  my  wee  thing  be  na  mine. 


Wit  and  grace,  and  love  and  beauty, 

In  ae  constellation  shine ! 
To  adore  thee  is  my  duty, 

Goddess  of  this  soul  o'  mine. 
Bonnie  wee  thing,  canny  wee  thing, 

Lovely  wee  thing,  wert  thou  mine, 
I  wad  wear  thee  in  my  bosom, 

Lest  my  jewel  I  should  tine. 


I  do  not  know  whether  both  songs  were  inspired  by  the  same  heroine,  but  Burns  tells 
us  that  the  "  Bonnie  wee  thing  "  was  "  composed  on  my  little  idol,  the  charming,  lovely 
Davies."  Allan  Cunningham  says  of  this  object  of  Burns's  admiration,  that  "her  education 
was  superior  to  that  of  most  young  ladies  of  her  station  of  life ;  she  was  equally  agreeable 
and  witty ;  her  company  was  much  courted  in  Nithsdale,  and  others  than  Burns  respected 
her  talents  in  poetic  compositions."  A  disappointment  in  love  brought  this  gifted  and 
interesting  young  woman  to  an  early  grave. 


Lively. 


MY    WIFE'S   A     WINSOME    WEE    THING.  391 

Arranged  by  Edward  S.  Cnmmings. 


1.  My    wife's    a      win  -  some  wee  thing,    She       is         a      hand -some  wee  thing;    She 

2.  She      is          a      win  -  some  wee  thing,    She        is         a      hand  -some  wee  thing ;    She 


r-7- 


lit        I 

ir-*i-»r~  3= 


-*— * 


H=3= 


j-*— *—  *— ^    ^"^ 


if—*—* 


tet«=i; 


»*—*—*--•—»- 


">~~ 


I 


is  a       bon     -    nie      wee  thing,    This     sweet      wee       wife       o'  mine- 

is  a       bon     -    nie      wee  thing,    This     sweet      wee       wife       o'  mine. 


— T-t-l— T-     i         J      J 


I  nev  -  er       saw     a    fair 

The        world's       wrack  we  share 


er,          I       nev    -  er      lo'ed      a      dear 
o't,      The      wars  -  tie     and     the     care 


I 


er,       And 
o't,       Wi' 


m  m 


3EES^E^=    3 


J » 


I 1 ^ 4- <f 

^^P=     .- -^^f    >- 


-i- 


neist 
her 


my       heart      I'll    wear 
Fll       blythe  -  ly     bear 


her,      For      fear        my     jew    -     el       tine, 
it,       And    think       my      lot  di   -   vine. 


-?— - 


392 


OUK    FAMILIAR    SONGS. 


THE  ANGEL'S   WHISPER. 

SAMUEL  LOVER  wrote  a  series  of  poems  upon  the  superstitious  fancies  of  the  Irish 
people,  and  this  song  is  one  of  them.  Most  of  the  traditions  which  he  embodies,  are 
common  to  various  nations,  and  we  are  all  familiar  with  the  pretty  one  upon  which  "  The 
Angel's  Whisper"  is  founded.  The  fancy  is,  that  when  a  child  smiles  in  its  sleep,  angels 
are  talking  with  it. 

Of  the  music,  Lover  says  :  "  The  song  was  written  to  an  old  Irish  air  (one  of  the  few 
Moore  left  untouched),  entitled,  'Mary,  do  you  fancy  me?'  Words  have  been  written  to 
it,  but  they  were  ineffective,  and  left  the  air  still  in  oblivion,  while  mine  had  better  fortune, 
and  made  this  charming  melody  widely  known ;  and  I  think  it  may  be  allowed  to  be 
pardonably  pleasing  to  an  author,  that  it  is  now  known  by  the  name  of  '  The  Angel's 
Whisper.'" 


TTLrt      I1 

3N 

J 

j 

K          t.      '     r        1          J          •!          -1               J          m  3 

w^  —  ^— 

H  * 

«  0  

J  &- 

=L_g  3  j  J  3  r_j  — 

i  '  9  *  —  *  —  •—    —s  —  ^.  '  g  —  *  —  *— 

1.    A        ba     -     by     was       sleep  -  ing,      Its       moth    -     er      was    weep  -    ing,     For  her 
2.  Her  beads      while   she       num  -  ber'd   The         ba      -      by      still    slum  -  bered,       And 
0                                             mm                                                            mm         ^/^~m 

A 

i^^L     (  * 

-f-  P  ^       -\  

r 

=£  -f-  f-  1  m  .L- 

^  *v  *-*  —  p  — 

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9  1*  — 

H»  •  •  •—               -fr^ff 

V        ! 

v     v 

1 

J         v         \                  V        V        1              "         V       p 

^ 


^ 


± 


bus  -  band  was 
smiled  in    her 

*_ 


wild- ra-ging  sea;  And  the      tern -pest  was  swelling 'Round  the 
bend-ed   her  knee:    "Oh,       blessed  be   that  warning,       My 

JS k J J\ h •     m  f m f. *- 


* 


± 


V» 


-v — v- 


fish  -  er 
child,  thy 


-   man's  dwell-ing.  And 
sleep     a-dorn-ing,  For 


V       V       I 


:f 


g 


A  baby  was  sleeping, 

Its  mother  was  weeping, 
For  her  husband  was  far  on  the  wild-raging  sea, 

And  the  tempest  was  swelling, 

'Round  the  fisherman's  dwelling, 
As  she  cried,  "  Dermot,  darling,  oh !  come  back 
to  me  ! " 

Her  beads  while  she  numbered, 

The  baby  still  slumbered, 
And  smiled  in  her  face  as  she  bended  her  knee  : 

"  Oh,  blessed  be  that  warning, 

My  child,  thy  sleep  adorning  — 
For  I  know  that  the  angels  are  whispering  with 
thee. 


"And  while  they  are  keeping, 

Bright  watch  o'er  thy  sleeping, 
Oh,  pray  to  them  softly,  my  baby,  with  me  — 

And  say  thou  would'st  rather 

They  watch  o'er  thy  father, 

For  I  know  that  the  angels  are  whispering  with 
thee." 

The  dawn  of  the  morning, 

Saw  Dermot  returning, 
And  the  wife  wept  with  joy  her  babe's  father  to  see, 

And  closely  caressing 

Her  child  with  a  blessing, 

Said,    "  I   knew  that  the  angels  were  whispering 
with  thee." 


WE'RE   A'    NODDING 

WE'RE    A'    NODDIN'. 


393 


THE  song  of  "  Nid,  nid,  noddiu' "  is  old,  and  there  are  many  versions.  The  melody 
has  not  been  altered  so  much  as  the  words.  Baroness  Nairne  wrote  a  version  which  is 
good,  but  is  not  so  well-known  as  the  anonymous  one  we  give.  There  is  a  familiar  set  of 
words,  which  is  too  absolute  doggerel  for  repetition.  The  singers  at  our  "  old  folks  con. 
certs  "  put  themselves  to  sleep  over  this  piece ;  being  evidently  under  the  impression  that 
"  nid,  nid,  noddin' "  means,  growing  drowsy.  Whereas,  "  noddin' "  means  joyous,  and  the 
sentiment  is  most  lively ;  everybody  is  noddin'  because  "  Jamie  he's  cam'  hame." 

Moderate.  &• 


vL  (  *  j*1  J  1 

3  E3 

F 

^*=fs 

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1     i        1      N   ^  1 

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nid,  nid,  noddin'  ,Andwe're  a'      nod-din'  at  our  house  at  hame.  <      Oh, 
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e'en     to     ye,  kimmer,  And 
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knock  -  et      at  the  door,    I 


are       ye     a-lane?       Oh, 

late     did      I  toil,       My 

thocht  I  kent  the  rap,   And 


come  and  see  how  blithe  are  we,  For 
bair-nies  for  to  feed  and  dead,  My 
lit  -  tie  Ka  -  tie  cried  a-loud,  "  My 


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Ja-  mie  he's  cam'  hame,  And  oh,  but  he's  been  lang  a  -  wa',  And  oh,  my  heart  was  sair,  As 
comfort  was  their  smile!  When  I  thocht  on  Ja-mie  far  a  -  wa',  An?  o'  his  love  sa  fain,  A 
dad-  die,  he's  cam'  back  !"  A  stoun  gaed  thro'  my  anxious  breast,  As  thocht-ful-ly  I  sat,  I 


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394 


OUR  FAMILIAR  SONGS. 


ton  ,  —  =  —  ?  •  f  f  —  r  —  p  T 

~i  —  J^  —  F  —  i^  —  i  —  r  —  R  —  Mr 

—  3  —  n 

Isobb'dout       a  lang  fare  weel,  May    be      to  meet  nae  mair.         Noo  we're 
bo  -din'  thrill  cam'  thro'  my  heart,  We'd  may  be  meet    a  -gain.          Noo  we're 
raise,  I  gazed,  fell  in   his  arms,  And  burst-  ed    out   and  grat.         Noo  we're 

ffi  f       —  i—    —  £—     ~x  •  —  =<—    "^  —  i  —  H—  *  

a'             nod  -  din', 
a'            nod-  din', 
a'            nod-  din', 

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y  f    M     =* 

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nid,        nid,        nod  -  din',    And  we're 

Hi  —  i  —  j  '-i  r^r 

a'            nod    -    din'         at           our 

N        II     —  H- 

•      i      •  .  ii 

house    at    hame. 

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11  J  a     'i 

-0  JJi 

And  we're  a'  noddin', 

Nid,  nid,  noddin', 
And  we're  a'  noddin' 

At  our  house  at  hame. 
Gude  e'en  to  ye,  kimmer, 

And  are  ye  alane  ? 
Oh,  come  and  see  how  blythe  are  we, 

For  Jamie  he's  cam'  hame. 
And  oh,  he's  been  lang  awa', 
And  oh,  my  heart  was  sair, 
As  I  sobbed  out  a  lang  fareweel, 
May  be  to  meet  nae  mair. 

Noo  we're  a'  noddin',  etc. 

Oh,  sair  ha'e  I  fought, 

Ear'  and  late  did  I  toil, 
My  bairnies  for  to  feed  and  clead, 

My  comfort  was  their  smile  ! 


When  I  thocht  on  Jamie  far  awa', 

An'  o'  his  love  sa  fain, 
A  bodin'  thrill  cam'  thro'  my  heart, 

We'd  may  be  meet  again. 

Noo  we're  a'  noddin',  etc. 

When  he  knocket  at  the  door, 

I  thocht  I  kent  the  rap, 
And  little  Katie  cried  aloud, 

"  My  daddie,  he's  cam'  back  !" 
A  stoun  gaed  thro'  my  anxious  breast^ 

As  thochtfully  I  sat, 
I  raise,  I  gazed,  fell  in  his  arms, 
And  bursted  out  and  grat. 

Noo  we're  a'  noddin', 

Nid,  nid,  noddin', 
And  we're  a'  noddin' 
At  our  house  at  hame. 


NAE  LUCK  ABOUT  THE  HOUSE. 

THE  authorship  of  this  exquisite  Scottish  song  has-  long  been  a  subject  of  dispute. 
Conflicting  claims  are  urged  by  the  friends  of  WILLIAM  JULIUS  MICKLE,  and  JEAN  ADAM. 
Mickle's  claim  rests  upon  the  affirmation  by  Rev.  John  Sim,  editor  of  Mickle's  works,  that 
Mrs.  Mickle  perfectly  recollected  her  husband's  giving  her  the  ballad  as  his  own  production, 
and  explaning  to  her  English  ears  the  unfamiliar  Scottish  words  and  phrases.  Jean 
Adam's  title  to  the  honor  is  upheld  principally  by  the  statement  of  Mrs.  Fullerton,  a 
pupil  of  Miss  Adam's,  who  had  many  times  heard  her  repeat  it,  and  distinctly  claim  the 
authorship. 


NAE   L  UCK   A  B  OUT   THE  HO  USE.  395 

In  such  a  dilemma,  we  must  resort  to  internal  evidence.  Mickle  was  born  in  Lang- 
holm,  Dumfries,  Scotland,  and  lived  in  Edinburgh  and  London,  finally  settling  near  Oxford. 
In  all  these  places,  he  was  far  from  the  scenes  of  simple  fisher-folk  life,  so  graphically 
•described  in  the  song.  His  greatest  work  was  a  translation  of  the  "  Lusiad,"  from  the 
Portuguese  of  Camoens.  His  style  in  the  poem  is  described  by  Campbell,  as  "  free,  flowery, 
3nd  periphrastical,  comparatively  spirited,  but  departing  widely  from  the  majestic  simplicity 
of  the  original."  In  elaborate  notes  upon  the  poem,  he  defends  all  that  has  been  called 
defective  in  the  work  he  translates.  Of  Mickle's  original  "  Syr  Martin,"  Campbell  says  that. 
"  the  simplicity  of  the  tale  is  unhappily  overlaid  by  a  weight  of  allegory  and  obsolete 
phraseology,  which  it  has  not  importance  to  sustain."  Mickle's  pretty  ballad  of  "  Cumnor 
Hall,"  the  opening  lines  of  which  Walter  Scott  was  fond  of  repeating,  and  which  suggested 
to  him  the  novel  of  "  Kenihvorth,"  is  a  descriptive  poem,  but  does  not  contain  a  hint  of 
the  delicate  homeliness  that  charms  us  in  our  song.  Mickle  was  a  scholar  and  a  man  of 
genius;  he  could  describe  a  stately  ruin  in  stately  rhyme,  and  he  wrote  some  pleasing 
ballads ;  but  his  hand  had  not 

."  The  cunning  to  draw 
Shapes  of  things  he  never  saw." 

Allan  Cunningham,  in  discussing  Mickle's  claim,  says:  "He  has  written  nothing  else  in 
the  peculiar  style  of  that  composition,  and  we  know  that  the  reputation  of  having  written 
it  was  long  enjoyed  by  another — Miss  Jean  Adam.  Now  the  claim  of  Mickle  depends  on 
the  conclusion  we  may  choose  to  draw  from  the  fact  of  the  song,  with  variations,  being 
found  in  his  handwriting.  Many  of  the  songs  which  Burns  transcribed,  or  dressed  up  for 
the  Museum,  have  been  mistaken  for  his  own  compositions,  and,  in  like  manner,  Mickle 
may  unwittingly  have  made  another  person's  song  his  own,  which  he  had  only  sought  to 
oorrect  or  embellish."  Twenty  years  had  passed  between  Mrs.  Mickle's  marriage,  the 
supposed  date  of  the  song,  and  the  discovery  of  the  copy  by  Sim,  and  during  that  tmie 
Mrs.  Mickle  had  been  attacked  by  paralysis,  and,  even  in  speaking  of  it,  she  frequently 
confounded  this  ballad  with  others  of  her  husband's,  in  a  totally  different  style.  David 
Hume  emphatically  said,  that  "  Mrs.  Mickle  was  not  a  person  whose  evidence  was  of  much 
•consequence  at  any  time." 

Greenock,  the  well-known  seaport  town  of  the  West  of  Scotland,  was  divided,  by  a 
wide  bay,  into  two  little  settlements.  In  one  of  these,  called  Crawfurdsdyke,  Jean  Adam 
was  born,  about  1710.  Her  father  was  a  ship-master,  and  Jean  received  a  good  education 
for  the  day  and  place.  But  her  father  died,  and  the  girl  went  into  the  family  of  a  clergy- 
man hear  by,  as  a  sort  of  nurse  and  teacher.  She  was  an  eager  student  in  the  minister's 
library,  the  results  of  which  appeared  in  the  subjects  of  a  volume  of  original  poems  which 
she  published  by  subscription  shortly  afterward.  Among  the  titles  are :  "  A  Dialogue  be- 
tween Soul  and  Curiosity,"  "  Curiosity  and  the  Soul  anent  the  keeping  of  the  Ten  Command- 
ments," "  On  Creation,"  "  On  Abel,"  "  On  Astrea,"  "  On  Cleopatra."  A  long  list  of  local 
names  appears  on  the  fly-leaves  of  the  book — Crawfurds  by  the  dozen;  "Dame  Margaret,, 
of  Castlemilk ; "  titled  Temples  and  Montgomeries ;  baronets,  and  lairds ;  ministers,  school- 
masters, and  tradesmen  of  all  grades.  After  leaving  service,  Jean  opened  a  select  school 
in  the  best  portion  of  the  town,  known  as  the  quay-head.  Here  she  taught  for  years,  with 
little  external  change  or  excitement.  There  is  a  tradition  that  she  once  closed  her  school 
for  six  weeks,  and  went  to  London,  walking  a  great  portion  of  the  way.  The  principal 
inspiration  of  the  journey,  was  the  hope  that  she  might  see  Richardson,  author  of  "  Clarissa 
Harlowe."  There  are  also  traditions  of  her  reading  Shakespeare  aloud  to  her  pupils,  when 
the  world  about  her  looked  upon  him  as  a  dangerous  playwright,  and  of  her  singing 
her  own  songs  now  and  then.  In  later  life,  she  sent  the  surplus  copies  of  her  poems  to 


396 


OUR   FAMILIAE   SONGS. 


Boston,  Mass.,  but  she  never  received  any  return.  Her  slowly  accumulated  savings  wera 
in  the  venture,  and  in  her  old  age  the  school-teacher  poetess  had  to  seek  such  employment 
as  she  could  find  about  the  neighborhood.  She  was  nurse  and  general  helper  in  sudden 
family  emergencies.  Mrs.  Fullerton  tells  of  having  once  given  her  clothing,  which  her 
independence  forbade  her  to  take  away,  but  finally  she  returned  for  it  when  harder  pressed 
by  poverty.  At  last  she  wandered  to  Glasgow,  and  two  of  the  baillies  of  Greenock  found 
her  admittance  to  the  poor-house,  as  "  a  poor  woman  in  distress,  a  stranger  who  had  been 
wandering  about."  There  she  died  the  next  day,Apnl  3,  1765. 

Burns  says  that  "  There's  Nae  luck  about  the  house  "  came  on  the  streets  as  a  ballad 
about  1771 -'2,  ten  or  eleven  years  before  Mrs.  Mickle  thinks  her  husband  wrote  it.  Mrs. 
Fullerton  not  only  left  her  testimony  to  having  heard  Jean  Adam  sing  it  as  her  own,  with 
her  daughter,  who  married  a  Crawfurd,  but  Mrs.  Crawford  says:  "My  aunt,  Mrs.  Crawfurd 
of  Cartsburn,  often  sang  it  as  a  song  of  Jean  Adam's." 

The  scenery  and  expressions  of  the  song  are  suited  to  the  location  of  the  west  of 
Scotland,  and  peculiarly  to  Greenock.  The  name  of  the  hero,  Colin,  while  almost  unknown 
in  other  parts  of  Scotland,  is  very  common  in  this;  and  the  tradition  of  the  town  even 
points  to  a  particular  Colin  and  Jean — Colin  and  Jean  Campbell, — as  the  originals  of  the 
song.  In  the  local  phrase,  "  Jean  made  a  great  work  about  her  man,"  and  even  the  exqui- 
site fancy  of  the  "  foot  with  music  in 't,  as  he  comes  up  the  stair,"  has  an  added  pictur- 
esqueness  from  the  fact,  that  from  the  quay  up  to  the  "  quay-head,"  where  the  well-to-do- 
people  had  their  homes,  there  was  a  mighty  stairway,  built  of  sounding  Norway  deal. 


JF    K~M~      £                                     M 

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1.  And  are        ye      sure    the    news       is     true?    And  are       ye      sure    he's 
2.  Rise    up       and    mak'     a       clean     fire  •  side,     Put     on        the    muc  -  kle 

weel  ?               Is 
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fling   by 
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your 
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coat; 

IH 
And 

THERE'S  NAE  LUCK  ABOUT  THE  HOUSE. 


397 


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this         a       time      to     think       o'    wark,  When 
mak'     their  shoon     as    black       as    slaes,  Their 

Co    -  lin's       at        the 
hose       as      white      as 

&—=*  —  :  *- 

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door?                  Gie 
snaw  ;                  It's 

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me       my    cloak,     I'll         to         the    quay,    And 
a'          to    please    my        ain      gude  -  man,    For 

.  see       him    come       a 
he's      been    lang       a 

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There's 


luck       a    -    bout      the    house,  There's     nae  luck       at       a'; 


398 


OUR   FAMILIAR   SONGS. 


And  are  ye  sure  the  news  is  true  ? 

And  are  ye  sure  he's  weel  ? 
Is  this  a  time  to  talk  o'  wark? 

Ye  jades,  fling  by  your  wheel ! 
Is  this  a  time  to  think  o'  wark, 

When  Colin's  at  the  door? 
Gie  me  my  cloak,  I'll  to  the  quay, 

And  see  him  come  ashore. 
For  there's  nae  luck  about  the  house, 

There's  nae  luck  at  a' ; 
There's  little  pleasure  in  the  house 

When  our  gudeman's  awa'. 

Rise  up  and  mak'  a  clean  fireside, 

Put  on  the  muckle  pot; 
Gie  little  Kate  her  cotton  gown, 

And  Jock  his  Sunday  coat; 
And  mak'  their  shoon  as  black  as  slaes, 

Their  hose  as  white  as  snaw ; 
It's  a'  to  please  my  ain  gudeman, 

For  he's  been  lang  awa'. 

For  there's  nae  luck,  etc. 

There  are  twa  hens  upon  the  bauk, 

Been  fed  this  month  and  mair, 
Mak'  haste  and  thraw  their  necks  about 

That  Colin  weel  may  fare  : 
And  spread  the  table  neat  and  clean, 

Gar  ilka  thing  look  braw ; 
For  wha  can  tell  how  Colin  fared 

When  he  was  far  awa'. 

For  there's  nae  luck,  etc. 

Come,  gie  me  down  my  bigonet, 

My  bishop-satin  gown ; 
And  rin  and  tell  the  Bailie's  wife 

That  Colin's  come  to  tow,n ; 


My  Turkey-slippers  they  maun  gae  on, 

My  hose  o'  pearl  blue ; 
It's  a'  to  please  my  ain  gudeman, 

For  he's  baith  leal  and  true. 
For  there's  nae  luck,  etc. 

Sae  true  his  heart,  sae  smooth  his  speech, 

His  breath  like  caller  air! 
His  very  foot  has  music  in't 

As  he  comes  up  the  stair: 
And  will  I  see  his  face  again  ? 

And  will  I  hear  him  speak? 
I'm  downright  dizzy  wi'  the  thought, 

In  troth  I'm  like  to  greet. 
For  there's  nae  luck,  etc. 

The  cauld  blasts  o'  the  winter  wind, 

That  thirled  through  my  heart, 
They're  a'  blawn  by,  I  hae  him  safe, 

Till  death  we'll  never  part : 
But  what's  put  parting  in  my  head  ? 

It  may  be  far  awa'; 
The  present  moment  is  our  ain, 

The  neist  we  never  saw  ! 

For  there's  nae  luck,  etc. 

Since  Colin's  weel,  I'm  weel  content, 

I  hae  nae  mair  to  crave ; 
Could  I  but  live  to  mak'  him  blest, 

I'm  blest  aboon  the  lave. 
And  will  I  see  his  face  again  ? 

And  will  I  hear  him  speak  ? 
I'm  downright  dizzy  wi'  the  thought, 

In  troth  I'm  like  to  greet. 
For  there's  nae  luck,  etc. 


TOUCH  US    GENTLY,  TIME. 

THIS  is  one  of  BRYAN  WALLER  PROCTER'S  (Barry  Cornwall)  songs,  and  very  character- 
istic of  his  gentle,  winsome  style  it  is. 


s>      > 

1.  Touch  us    gent  -  ly,    gent  -  ly,  Time ! 

2.  Touch  us    gent-ly,    gent  -  ly,  Time ! 


Let    us     glide    a  -  down    thy  stream       Gent-ly, 
We've  not  proud  nor    soar  -  ing  wings ;         Our   am- 


TOUCH    US 

GENTLY,    TIME. 

/TS 

399 

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as       we  sometimes  glide,  Thro'  a      qi 
bi  -    tion.  our    con  -  tent.  Lies    in     sii 

i  -  et,    qui   -  et  dream  ;  Humble    vc 
a  -  pie,  sim  -pie,  things  ;  Humble    vc 

f        1          1       ^      f      '        * 

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we,                 Husband,  wife,  and    chil 
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"f ^^     ^^~~      ^*    __-_! 


^        ',/    |  , 

To    the     a   -   zure    o    -   ver head,  Touch  ns  gent  -  ly,   O      gen-tie  Time! 

Touch  us    gent  -  ly,    gen-   tie  Time,  Touch  us  gent  -  ly,  O      gen-tie  Timel 

L^LLJ  '~' 


Touch  us  gently,  Time ! 

Let  us  glide  adown  thy  stream 
Gently  —  as  we  sometimes  glide 

Through  a  quiet  dream. 
Humble  voyagers  are  we  — 

Husband,  wife,  and  children  three  — 
(One  is  lost — an  angel,  fled 

To  the  azure  overheard.) 


Touch  us  gently,  Time  ! 

We've  not  proud  nor  soaring  wings; 
Our  ambition,  our  content, 

Lies  in  simple  things. 
Humble  voyagers  are  we, 

O'er  Life's  dim,  unsounded  sea, 
Seeking  only  some  calm  clime  — 

Touch  us  gently,  gentle  Time ! 


JOHN  ANDERSON,  MY  JO. 

THERE  was  a  very  ancient  fragment  of  song  which  bore  this  name,  and  tradition  points  to 
the  town  piper  of  Kelso,  a  famous  wag,  as  the  original  John.  The  tune  is  very  old.  As  early 
as  1578,  it  was  found  written  in  Queen  Elizabeth's  «  Virginal  Book."  Some  English  author- 
ities think  it  is  a  modification  of  an  ancient  English  air,  "  I  am  the  Duke  of  Norfolk." 
Moore  altered  it,  and  included  it  among  his  Irish  melodies,  under  the  title  of  "  Cruiskin 
Lawn."  Only  the  two  stanzas  really  written  by  BURNS  are  given  here,  although  many  by 
inferior  hands  have  been  added  from  time  to  time.  Perhaps  the  one  most  familiarly  asso- 
ciated with  Burns's  lines,  is  the  following  stanza,  by  WILLIAM  REID,  who  was  a  bookseller 
in  Glasgow,  and  a  personal  friend  of  Burns. 

John  Anderson,  my  jo,  John, 

When  Nature  first  began 
To  try  her  canny  hand,  John, 

Her  masterpiece  was  man ; 
And  you  amang  them  a',  John, 

Sae  trig  f rae  tap  to  toe  — 
She  proved  to  be  nae  journeyman, 

John  Anderson,  my  jo. 


400 


or/,'    FAMILIAR   SONGS. 


1.  John        An  -  der  -  son,     my       jo,       John,  When       we      were  first       ac  -  quent,        Your 

2.  John       An  -  der  -  son,     my       jo,       John,    We       clamb     the    hill       the-gith-  er,        And 


s 


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ra    -       veu,    Your   bon    -       nie   brow     was       brent;                But 
day,        John,  We've  had            wi'    ane          a-   nith-er;              Now 

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BE  —  f-  —  F  —  Efe  *  —  i  ^r- 

bless  -  ings        on      your    frost  -    y        pow,       John 
sleep      the   -   gith  -    er       at        the        foot,       John 

*L\)  g                    3  *  ss  — 

__|  J  J  j  tf^  H 

An  -   der   -   son,        my          jo. 
An  -    der   -   son,        my          jo. 

—    —\  1  1  1  H 

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E  —  —  '  H 

SONGS  OF  PLEASANTRY. 


Then  is  not  he  the  wisest  man 

Who  rids  his  brow  of  wrinkles, 
Who  bears  his  load  with  merry  heart, 

And  lightens  it  by  half, 
Whose  pleasant  tones  ring  in  the  ear, 

As  mirthful  music  trinkles, 
And  whose  words  are  true  and  telling, 

Though  they  echo  with  a  laugh? 

— Anonymous. 


Merrily,  cheerily,  noisily  whirring, 

Swings  the  wheel,  spins  the  reel,  which  the  foot's  stirring  ; 

Sprightly,  and  lightly,  and  airily  ringing, 

Thrills  the  sweet  voice  of  the  young  maiden  singing. 

—John  Francis  Watter. 


SONGS  OF  PLEASANTRY, 


COMIN'  THRO'  THE  RYE. 

THE  author  of  this  song  is  unknown.  Previous  to  Christmas,  1795-'6,  when  the 
English  claim  that  it  appeared  in  an  English  pantomime,an  old  familiar  Scottish  song  waa 
touched  up  by  Burns,  which  referred  to  the  fording  of  the  little  Eiver  Eye.  It  read : 


Comin'  through  theRye,  poor  body, 

Comin'  through  the  Rye, 
She  draiglet  a'  her  petticoatie 

Comin'  through  the  Rye. 
Oh,  Jenny's  a'  wat,  poor  body, 

Jenny's  seldom  dry ; 
She  draiglet  a'  her  petticoatie, 

Comin'  through  the  Rye. 

Gin  a  body  meet  a  body, 
Comin'  through  the  Rye, 


Gin  a  body  kiss  a  body, 

Need  a  body  cry  ? 
Gin  a  body  meet  a  body 

Comin'  through  the  glen, 
Gin  a  body  kiss  a  body, 

Need  the  warld  ken  ? 

O  Jenny's  a1  wat,  poor  body, 
Jenny's  seldom  dry ; 

She  draiglet  a'  her  petticoatie, 
Comin'  through  the  Rye. 


So  we  see  that  the  popular  idea  of  the  song,  understood  as  having  reference  to  passing 
through  a  field  of  grain,  is  erroneous.  It  furnishes  a  striking  example  of  that  popular 
comprehension,  or  want  of  comprehension,  which  so  often  catches  at  a  word  instead  of  an 
idea.  In  pictorial  title-pages,  and  other  ways,  the  song  has  been  often  illustrated, — and 
always  as  an  encounter  in  a  waving  field  of  rye.  Eecently  the  idea  has  been  utilized  by 
the  manufacturers  of  a  celebrated  brand  of  rye  whiskey,  who  have  hung  in  every  bar-room 
a  finely  executed  chromo  representing  the  lovers  in  the  rye-field.  The  full  significance  of 
the  song  is  apparent  when  we  know  that  custom  established  a  toll  of  kisses  to  be  exacted 
from  lasses  who  were  met  in  crossing  the  stream  on  the  stepping-stones.  The  first  stanza 
of  an  old  English  song,  reads : 

If  a  body  meet  a  body, 

Going  to  the  fair, 
If  a  body  kiss  a  body, 

Need  a  body  care  ? 
Allegretto  Moderate. 


1.  Gin        a      bo  -  dy      meet 

2.  Gin        a     bo  -  dy      meet 

3.  A  -    mang     the  train  there      is 


a  bo  -  dy 
a  bo  -  dy 
a  swain 


Com  -  in'  thro'  the  Rye, 
Com  -  in'  frae  the  town, 
dear-ly  lo'e  my-  seP;  But 


KHEHZI2  "       J  I  " 

!    M      '              •—  •    -              >, 

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.  ,  !  1  , 

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404 


OUR   FAMILIAR   SONGS. 


--R — *-v 


Gin         a        bo   -    dy         kiss        a       bo  -    dy£     Need        a       bo     -    dy      cry? 
Gin         a        bo   -    dy       meet       a       bo  -   dv        Need        a       bo     -    dv    frown? 
what      his    name,    or      whaur      his    hame,       I         din  -   na     care        to      tell. 


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11    -     ka       las  -  sie       has       her     lad  -  die, 


Nane,     they    say,       hae       I, 


Yet 


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a'        the 

lads      they  smile      at 

me,    When 
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com  -  in'      thro'       the  Bye. 

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THE   LOW-BACKED   CAR. 

*    "  THE  Low-Backed  Car  "  was  one  of  the  songs  which  SAMUEL  LOYER  wrote  and  com- 
posed for  his  entertainment  called  "  Irish  Evenings." 

Lively,  but  not  too  fast.  - 


1.  When  first       I     saw    sweet  Peg  -    gy, 

2.  In    bat  -   tie's  wild     com  -mo    -  tion, 


Twas  on         a     mar   -  ket  day, 
The  proud    and  might  -  y     Mars, 


THE   LOW-BAGGED    CAB. 


40o 


5r *        H^ —  m* 


low  -  back'd  car       she    drove,    and       sat       Up  -  on         a      truss       of      hay; 
hos  -   tile  scythes     de  -  mands    his   tythes     Of  death       in     war    -  like    cars. 


But 
But 


J(Li-  ,  —                     0  —  1 
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^             »          2        •»        '  N'~ 

_  —  __  ,  — 

-»  -a  —  *  N  — 

when     that    hay      was    bloom  -ing  grass,       Anddeck'd  with  flow'rs     of    spring,                  No 
Peg  -    gy,  peace  -  ful     god         -     dess,        Has  darts       in      her    bright  eye.                     That 

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in  the 

could 
mar 

compare,  To 
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the    bloom 
As    right 

-ing 
and 

girl 
left      t 

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sat     in    her   low -back'd  car, 
sits    in    her   low -back'd  car, 


The    man  at     the    turn  -  pike   bar, 
Than  bat -tie  more  daug'rous     far, 


Nev  -  er 
For  the 


ask'dfor   the    toll,  But  just  rubb'd  his  auld  poll,  And  look'daf-  ter    the  low  -  back'd    carl 

doc    -    tor's  art,  Can -not      cure        the  heart  That  is      hit  from  the  low  •  back'd    car!.... 


eolla  voce. 


-9 — 9- 


colla  -voce. 

^M      *f    "^ 


^J-JLJ-H 

;S^^j-Tl 


406 


OUR  FAMILIAR  SONGS. 


Sweet  Peggy  round  her  car,  sir, 

Has  strings  of  ducks  and  geese, 
But  the  scores  of  hearts  she  slaughters, 

By  far  outnumber  these. 
While  she  among  her  poultry  sits, 

Just  like  a  turtle  dove, 
Well  worth  the  cage,  I  do  engage, 

Of  the  blooming  god  of  Love. 

While  she  sits  in  her  low-backed  car 

The  lovers  come  near  and  far, 

And  envy  the  chicken, 

That  Peggy  is  pickin', 

While  she  sits  in  her  low-backed  car. 


I'd  rather  own  that  car,  sir, 

With  Peggy  by  my  side, 
Than  a  coach-and-four,  and  gold  galore. 

And  a  lady  for  my  bride ; 
For  the  lady  would  sit  forninst  me, 

On  a  cushion  made  with  taste,  — 
While  Peggy  would  be  beside  me, 

With  my  arm  around  her  waist. 

As  we  drove  in  a  low-backed  car, 
To  be  married  by  Father  Maher, 
Oh !  my  heart  would  beat  high, 
At  her  glance  and  her  sigh, 
Though  it  beat  in  a  low-backed  carl 


<GREEN   GROW  THE  RASHES,   O. 

BUBNS  calls  this  song  of  his  "  a  fragment."  Its  chorus  he  caught  from  an  old  song. 
He  says :  "  I  do  not  see  that  the  turn  of  mind  and  pursuits  of  such  a  one  as  the  above 
verses  decribe — one  who  spends  the  hours  and  thoughts  which  the  vocations  of  the  day 
can  spare,  with  Ossian,  Shakespeare,  Thomson,  Shenstone,  Sterne,  &c., — are  in  the  least 
more  inimical  to  the  sacred  interests  of  piety  and  virtue,  then  the  even  lawful  bustling  and 
straining  after  the  world's  riches  and  honors." 


1.  There's  nought  but  care     on      ev'  -  ry       ban',   In       ev'  -  ry  hour    that    pass  -es,       0 1 

2.  The    warld-   ly    race    may    rich-es      chase,  An'     rich-cs    still    may    fly  them,      O! 
8.     Gie     me          a     can  -  nie    hour  at       e'en,     My    arms   a  -  bout    my     dea  -  rie,       O I 


What 
An' 
An' 


£E3E?EEEE3E3EE£ 


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the      life       o'     man,      An' 
they   catch   them    fast,   Their 
and  warld  -  ly        men    May 

1  K  —    K  1 
*l           '          "    " 

J-T        *          *-r 

'twere     na'      for 
hearts  can    ne'er 
a'        gae     tap  - 

_!*•         «r 

—  »_i  —  0— 

the      las 
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GREEN  GROW   THE  SASHES,  O. 


407 


•*-* —     — !-T 1— 

sweet- est    hours    that       ere        I      spent  Were   spent       a-mang      the      las  -  ses,       "o\ 


For  you  sae  douce,  wha  sneer  at  this, 
Ye're  naught  but  senseless  asses,  O ! 

The  wisest  man  the  warl'  e'er  saw, 
He  dearly  lo'ed  the  lasses,  O. 

Green  grow  the  rashes,  O  !  etc. 


Auld  Nature  swears  the  lovely  dears 
Her  noblest  works  she  classes,  O  ! 

Her  'prentice  han'  she  tried  on  man, 
An'  then  she  made  the  lasses,  O. 

Green  grow  the  rashes,  0 1  etc. 


MOLLY    CAREW. 

THE  words  of  this  song  are  by  SAMUEL  LOVER,  who  says  they  were  "  suggested  by  one 
of  Carolan's  finest  bursts  of  melody,  entitled, '  Planxty  Keilly/  and  its  capricious  measure 
may  be  guessed  at  by  the  unusual  length  and  variety  of  the  following  metres."  Lover 
adds :  "  The  intensely  Irish  character  of  the  air,  stimulated  me  to  endeavor  that  the  words 
should  partake  of  that  quality,  and  the  rapid  replication  of  musical  phrases  made  me  strain 
after  as  rapid  a  ringing  of  rhyme,  of  which  our  early  bards  were  so  fond."  "  Weirasthru ! " 
is  an  appeal  to  the  Virgin, — "  0  Mary,  have  pity ! "  Francis  Mahony  ("  Father  Prout")  trans- 
lated this  song  into  Latin. 


V    fi     ?  .  fr»  rf  1*  j^  £  f<  *  j^~ 

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OcA    -    hone!      1.  Oh,  what     will       I       do?     Sure    my 
Och    -    hone!      2.  But  why     should    I     spake      Of    your 

rt                                                    1               ' 

ove       is       all    crost,    Like      a 
fore  -  head    and    eyes,  When  your 

Rty§~*~*  j  ^  —  *  tr  ~1  —  ^  J  — 

_I  1  _|  1  i  1  .  [ 

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(^    *  ^-  -^^^^  —  p—  jp  ^  ^  —  =t'~                ^^^ 
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bud    in   the    frost,  And  there's  no    use      at          all              in  my 
nose    it     de  -  fies   Pad-dy    Blake,  the    school  -  mas    -  ther,  to 

^  —  £  —  ^=^—  5—  ^=d 

go  -   ing      to      bed,        For  'tis 
put       it       in    rhyme  ;  Tho'  there'* 

colla  voce. 

Z~\\  •  ~  —  '  '  M  if"                                      in                                    if 

_2  —  ±=_ij  —  ?_^j_4—  j 

_/•  «•"•?•»               7        y            2 
r-s  J±"  ' 

Li  :«  J 

403 


OUR    FAMILIAR   SONGS. 


'spress. 


-U-—*  0  »  *                    0      4 

5  -  s  1  ,  _  .          3     *  • 

S         -*,  --j 

V"  i/  ^  \jl  ^  ^rf  ^  —  —  1—  ^       —_,.        .,       ^  .  —  ^—  -  -     

dhramcs,  and   not    sleep,       that  comes  in  -  to    my     head;    And  'tis  all           a  -  bout   you,    My  sweet 
one  Burke,  he    says,        that  would  call  it  snub-  lime.       And    then        for  your  cheek,  Troth  'twould 

sr~7  —  r™^  —  7  _j  —  3  — 

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it—  «     -K  -in     j        -N  ^  t       "**  —  ?  —  r  —  ?  —  *~: 

=15=1 

Mol  -  ly       Ca   -   rew  !        And  in  -  deed    'tis       a         sin      and       a 
take    him      a       week"          Its          beau  -  ties     to         tell      as      he'd 

-r          f^y  —  i 

shame  1  ....        You're  com- 
ra      -        ther;    Then  your 

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h-^    ^    ^  •  is    s    r  -\ 

pla  -  ter  than  na  -  ture  in 
lips  1  oh,  ma-chree  1  in  their 

ev    -     e    -    ry       fa    -  ture.  The 
beau   -    ti  -   ful     glow     They    a 

snow    can't    com  -  pare    with  your 
pat  -  them  might   be         for     the 

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forehead    so     fair!       And  I'd  rath  -   er     jist       see   but   one    blink    of     your    eye    Than   the 
cher-rie     to    grow.    'Twas  an    ap  -    pie    that    tempt  -ed    our    moth  -  er,      we  know,      For 


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MOLLY    CABEW. 


409 


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pur  -  ti    -   est     star      that  shines  out     of   the      sky!  And  by       this     and      by     that!  for     the 
ap  -pies  were  scarce,     I       sup  -  pose,  long  a  -    go;  But    at       this    time      o       day,  pon     my 

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mat-ther 
conscience 


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that    You'reTnore  dis-  tant      by       far    than    that     game.        Och  -  hone/ 
Such       cher  -  ries  might  tempt     a    man's    fa  -  ther  !  Och  -  hone! 


Ochone  !  and  what  will  I  do  ? 

Sure  my  love  is  all  crost, 

Like  a  bud  in  the  frost; 
And  there's  no  use  at  all  in  my  going  to  bed, 
For  'tis  dhrames  and  not  sleep  that  comes  into 
my  head; 

And  'tis  all  about  you, 

My  sweet  Molly  Carew, 
And  indeed  'tis  a  sin  and  a  shame ! 

You're  complater  than  nature, 

In  every  feature ; 

The  snow  can't  compare 

With  your  forehead  so  fair  ; 
And  I  rather  would  see  just  one  blink  of  your  eye 
Than   the  purtiest   star  that   shines   out  of  the 
sky; 

And  by  this  and  by  that, 

For  the  matter  o'  that, 
You're  more  distant  by  far  than  that  same  ! 

Ochone !  weirasthru ! 

Ochone  !  I'm  alone  ! 
I'm  alone  in  this  world  without  you. 


Ochone !  but  why  should  I  spake 
Of  your  forehead  and  eyes, 
When  your  nose  it  defies 

PaddyBlake,  the  schoolmasther,  to  put  itinihyme; 
Tho'  there's  one  Burke,  he  says,  that  would  call  it 
snublime. 

And  then  for  your  cheek, 
Troth  'twould  take  him  a  week 
Its  beauties  to  tell,  as  he'd  rather; 
Then  your  lips,  oh,  machree  ! 

In  their  beautiful  glow, 
They  a  patthern  might  be 

For  the  cherries  to  grow. 
'Twas  an    apple  that    tempted   our  mother,  we 

know. 

For  apples  were  scarce,  I  suppose,  long  ago ; 
But  at  this  time  o'  day, 
'Pon  my  conscience,  I'll  say, 
Such  cherries  might  tempt  a  man's  father! 
Ochone !  weirasthru ; 
Ochone  !  I'm  alone  ! 
I'm  alone  in  this  world  without  you. 


410 


OUR   FAMILIAR    SONGS. 


Ochone !  by  the  man  in  the  moon, 

You  taze  me  always 

That  a  woman  can  plaze, 
For  you  dance  twice  as  high  with  that  thief,  Pat 

Magee, 
As  when  you  take  share  of  a  jig,  dear,  with  me. 

Tho'  the  piper  I  bate, 

For  fear  the  old  chate, 
Wouldn't  play  you  your  favorite  tune. 

And  when  you're  at  mass, 

My  devotion  you  crass, 

For  'tis  thinking  of  you 

I  am,  Molly  Carew. 

While  you  wear,  on  purpose,  a  bonnet  so  deep 
That   I. can't    at  your    sweet,  purty  face  get  a 
peep. 

Och,  lave  off  that  bonnet, 

Or  else  I'll  lave  on  it, 

The  loss  of  my  wandhering  sowl! 

Ochone !  weirasthru ! 

Ochone !  like  an  owl, 

Day  is  night,  dear,  to  me  without  you ! 


Ochone  !  don't  provoke  me  to  do  it ; 
For  there's  girls  by  the  score 
That  loves  me  —  and  more  : 
And  you'd  look  mighty  quare  if    some  morning 

you'd  meet, 

My  wedding  all  marching  in  pride  down  the  street 
Troth,  you'd  open  your  eyes, 
And  you'd  die  with  surprise, 
To  think  'twasn't  you  was  come  to  it: 
And  faith,  Katty  Naile, 
And  her  cow,  I  go  bail, 
Would  jump  if  I'd  say, 
"  Katty  Naile,  name  the  day." 
And  tho'  you're  fresh  and  fair  as  a  morning  in  May, 
While  she's  short  and  dark,  like  a  cowld  winter's 
day, 

Yet,  if  you  don't  repent 
Before  Easter,  when  Lent 
Is  over  I'll  marry  for  spite. 
Ochone !  weirasthru ! 
And  when  I  die  for  you, 
My  ghost  will  haunt  you  every  night ! 


WITHIN  A   MILE  OF  EDINBORO'. 

THIS  song  is  a  fine  illustration  of  the  immortality  of  a  melody,  whatever  the  words 
may  be  to  which  we  are  obliged  to  hum  it.  These  words  are  a  modern  version  of  a  song 
that  appeared  in  1698,  called  "Within  a  furlong  of  Edinburgh  town,"  supposed  to  have 
been  written  by  THOMAS  D'UEFEY,  an  English  dramatist  and  musician,  born  in  1649.  He 
performed  his  own  music  before  Charles  II.,  James,  William  and  Mary,  Queen  Anne,  and 
George,  Prince  of  Denmark.  He  died  in  1723. 

The  present  striking  air  was  composed  by  JAMES  HOOK,  father  of  Theodore  Hook.  James 
Hook  was  born  in  Norwich,  England,  in  1746.  He  received  his  first  musical  instruction 
there,  and  threw  himself  into  the  profession  with  an  enthusiastic  devotion  which  won  him 
popularity.  Besides  sonatas,  concertos,  and  other  musical  works,  he  is  said  to  have  composed 
two  thousand  song  melodies,  of  which  his  English  ballads  were  remarkably  successful.  He 
wrote  many  comic  operas.  He  died  in  1827. 


1.  Twas  with  -   in 

2.  Jock-ie       was 

3.  But         when 


a  mile 
a  wag 
he  vow'd 


of 
that 
he 


Ed-  in  -  bo  -  ro  town,  In    the        ro   -    sy       time    of    the 
nev-er       wad    wed,  Though  lang  he      had       fol-low'd  the 
wad  make  her  his  bride,  Though  his  flocks    and    herds  were  not 


i 


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WITHIN  A    MILE    OF   EDINBOHO' 


411 


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year,                       Sweet         flow    -       ers  bloom'd,    And    the 
lass;                        Con     -     tented       she    earn'd           and 
few,                         She       gie'd  him      her    hand        and      a 

_jH|  

V         V                      *     ~^~ 

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grass       was    down,       And 
ate  her   brown  bread,       And 
kiss         be   -   side,        And 

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each    shepherd  woo'd       his         dear, 
mer    -    ri  -  ly    turn'd      up  the     grass, 
vow'd  she'd  for  -   ev    -     er  be      true. 

-0*  1  

Bon-  nie  Jockie,  blithe  and  gay, 
Bon-  nie  Jockie,  blithe  and  free, 
Bon-  nie  Jockie,  blithe  and  free. 

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Kiss'd  young  Jennie  mak-ing  hay  ;  The    lassie  blush'd,  and  frowning  cried,"  Na,  na,  ft  win-na    do  ;     I 
Won  her  heart  right  merri  -  ly;  Yet  still  she  blush'd,  and  frowning  cried,-<Na,na,  it  win-na    do;     I 
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can-na,    can-na,   winna,  win-na,    maunna  buckle   to." 


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412 


OUR  FAMILIAR  SONGS. 

WIDOW    MACHREE. 
BOTH  the  words  and  the  music  of  "  Widow  Machree  "  were  written  by  SAMUEL  LOTBR. 


1.  Wid-ow    Ma-chree,     'tis    no 

2.  Wid-  ow    Ma  -  chree,    now  the 

3.  Wid-ow    Ma-chree,   and  when 


won  -  der  you  frown, 
sum  -  mer  is  come, 
win  -  ter  comes  in, 


Och 
Och 
Och 


hone, 
hone, 
hone, 


Ritard. 


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Wid  -  ow   Ma-chree  I  Faith  it 
Wid  -  ow   Ma-chree  !   When 
Wid  -  ow  Ma-chree  !  To    be 

9        9 
ru  -  ins  your  looks,  that  same 
ev  -  'ry-thing  smiles,  should  a 
pok-  ing  the     flre     all      a     - 

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dirt  -   y     black  gown, 
beau  -  ty      look   glum? 
lone     is         a       sin, 

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Och                hone,                   Wid-ow      Ma-  chree  I              How      al  -  ter'd  your     air,    With  that 
Och                hone,                   Wid-ow      Ma-chree?         Seethe    birds    go       in     pairs,    And  the 
Och               hone,                  Wid  -  ow      Ma-  chree  I       Why  the   shov  -  el      and    tongs     To   each 

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close  cap  you  wear,  Tis   de  -   stroy  -  ing    your   hair   That  should 
rab-bits  and  hares—  Why  ev   -    en       the   bears  now         In 
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WIDOW    MACHKEE. 


413 


Crying 
Rallen.                  ^      N  N 

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long-er      a  churl  Of     its   black  silk  -  en  curl, 
mute  lit  -  tie   fish,  Tho'  they  can't  spake,  they  wish, 
lone  with  your  cup,  Like  a     her  -  mit  you  sup, 

Och 
Och 
Och 

=^f= 

hone, 
hone, 
hone, 

Widow  Ma-chree  1 
Widow  Ma-chree! 
Widow  Ma-chree! 

And  how  do  you  know,  with  the  comforts  I've  towld, 

Och  hone  !  Widow  Machree, 
But  you're  keeping  some  poor  fellow  out  in  the 
cowld, 

Och  hone  !  Widow  Machree  ! 
With  such  sins  on  your  head, 
Sure  your  peace  would  be  fled, 
Could  you  sleep  in  your  bed 

Without  thinking  to  see 
Some  ghost  or  some  sprite, 
That  would  wake  you  each  night, 

Crying,  "  Och  hone !  Widow  Machree." 


Then  take  my  advice,  darling  widow  Machree, 

Och  hone  !  Widow  Machree. 
And   with    my  advice,  faith  I  wish   you'd   take 
me, 

Och  hone  !  Widow  Machree. 
You'd  have  me  to  desire 
Then  to  stir  up  the  fire, 
And  sure  Hope  is  no  liar 

In  whispering  to  me, 
That  the  ghosts  would  depart, 
When  you'd  me  near  your  heart, 

Och  hone !  Widow  Machree. 


DUNCAN    GRAY. 

THEKE  was  an  old  song,  of  which  BURNS  has  retained  only  the  name  and  the  chorus 
in  his  "  Duncan  Gray."  He  writes  to  Thomson,  "  the  air  is  of  that  light-horse  gallop  that 
precludes  sentiment.  The  ludicrous  is  its  ruling  feature."  And  Thomson  replies,  "  Duncan 
is  a  lad  of  grace,  and  his  humor  will  endear  him  to  everybody."  Hon.  A.  Erskine,  writing 
to  the  poet,  says:  "Duncan  Gray  possesses  native,  genuine  humor.  '  Spak  o'  loupin'  o'er 
a  linn/  is  a  line  that  of  itself  should  make  you  immortal.*' 


j  All**. 

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1.  Dun  -  can    Gray  cam'    here       to      woo,  Ha, 

2.  Dun  -  can  fleech'd,  an'   Dun   -  can    pray'd,        Ha, 

3.  Time    and  chance    are     but        a       tide,  Ha, 


ha,  the  woo  -  in'  o't; 
ha,  the  woo  -  in'  o't ; 
ha,  the  woo  -  in'  o't ; 


On 


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414 


OUR   FAMILIAR    SONGS. 


£«r  -          — 

._       ^  0       ' 

1—  '            »-•       J            -1" 

pi  .___  4  J  *_ 

blythe    Yule  night,  when 
Meg      was    deaf      as 
Slight  -  ed      love     is 

we      were      fu', 
Ail    -    -a     Craig, 
sair       to       bide, 

_  J  j  ^ 

Ha,              ha,       the 
Ha,              ha,        the 
Ha,              ha,       the 

1 

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woo  -  in'      o't  ; 
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Mag  -  gie       coost       her      head       fu'    heigh,       Look'd    a-sklent,  and       un  -  co      skeigh, 
Dun  -  can     sigh'd      baith     out       an'      in,  Grat      his    een  baith    blear'd  an'    blin', 

"Shall   I,        like         a         fool,"    quo'     he,  "For      a     haugh-ty         hiz  -  zie      dee? 


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Gart  poor  Dun  -  can  stand  a  -  beigh, 
Spak'  o  loup  -  in'  o'er  a  linn, 
She  may  gae  to—  France—  for  me  I" 

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Ha,            ha,         the 
Ha,             ha,         the 
Ha,             ba,         the 

L_IJ  z_^:-  -••-_] 

woo  -  in'      o't. 
woo  -  in'      o't. 
woo  -  in'      o't. 

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How  it  comes  let  doctors  tell, 

Ha,  ha,  the  wooin'  o't ; 
Meg  grew  sick  as  he  grew  hale, 

Ha,  ha,  the  wooin'  o't. 
Something  in  her  bosom  wrings, 
For  relief  a  sigh  she  brings  ; 
And,  oh  !  her  een,  they  spak'  sic  things, 

Ha,  ha,  the  wooin'  o't. 


s- 

Duncan  was  a  lad  o'  grace, 

Ha,  ha,  the  wooin'  o't; 
Maggie's  was  a  piteous  case, 

Ha,  ha,  the  wooin'  o't. 
Duncan  couldna  be  her  death, 
Swelling  pity  smoor'd  his  wrath  ; 
Now  they're  crouse  and  canty  baitb,  — 

Ha,  ha,  the  wooin'  o't. 


RORY    O'MOEE. 


RORY    O'MORE 


415 


THE  name  of  "  Eory  O'More  "  has  long  suggested  all  that  was  impudently  coaxing  and 
bewitchingly  tormenting  iu  rural  courtship ;  but  more  than  two  centuries  ago  it  was 
worn  by  a  champion  of  the  Irish  people,  and  it  signified  to  them  everything  that  was 
lofty  and  unselfish  in  a  patriot.  It  was  the  country's  proverb  that  the  hope  of  Ireland  was 
"in  God,  the  Virgin,  and  Eory  O'More." 

The  words  and  music  of  this  song  are  by  SAMUEL  LOYER,  who  says':  "From  an  early 
period  I  had  felt  that  Irish  comic  songs  (so  called)  were  but  too  generally  coarse  and 
vulgar,  devoid  of  that  mixture  of  fun  and  feeling  so  strongly  blended  in  the  Irish  charac- 
ter— that  a  pig  and  a  poker,  expletive  oaths,  'hurroos,'  and  <whack-fol-de-rols,'  made  the 
staple  of  most  Irish  comic  songs ;  and  having  expressed  this  opinion  in  a  company  where 
the  subject  was  discussed,  I  was  met  with  that  taunting  question  which  sometimes  sup- 
plies the  place  of  argument,  'Could  you  do  better?'  I  said  I  would  try;  and  'Eory 
O'More'  was  the  answer.  Its  popularity  was  immediate  and  extensive ;  so  much  so  that  on 
the  occasion  of  her  Majesty,  Queen  Victoria's  coronation,  every  band  along  the  line  of  pro- 
cession to  Westminster  Abbey,  played  '  Eory  O'More'  during  some  part  of  the  day,  and, 
finally,  it  was  the  air  the  band  of  the  Life  Guards  played  as  they  escorted  her  Majesty  into 
the  park,  on  her  return  to  Buckingham  Palace.  Being  called  upon  to  write  a  novel,  I 
availed  myself  of  the  popularity  attaching  to  the  name,  and  entitled  my  story  'Eory 
O'More.'  The  success  of  the  novel  induced  the  management  of  the  Adelphi  Theatre  to 
apply  to  me  to  dramatize  the  story,  and  in  this,  its  third  form,  '  Eory  O'More'  was  again 
received  by  the  public  with  such  approbation,  that  it  was  played  one  hundred  and  eight 
nights  in  the  first  season,  in  London,  and  afterward  universally  throughout  the  kingdom." 


Lively. 


@ 


^ 


1.  Young       Ro-ry     O'  More  court-ed     Kath  -  a  -  leen  bawn,  He  was    bold    as      a  hawk,  and  she 

2.  "  In  -  deed,  then,"  says  Kathleen, "  don't  think  of  the  like,  For    I       half  gave    a     prom-ise    to 

3.  "Arrah,   Kath-leen,  my  dar- lint,  you've  teas'd  me    enough,  And  I've  thrash'd  for  your  sake  Din-ny 


^^ 


ipyrr^4s=M=?= 


soft    as    the   dawn;     He         wish'd  in    his  heart   pret-ty     Kath-leen       to  please,  And     he 
sooth-er-ing    Mike;     The       ground  that  I   walk     on     he     loves,  I'll  be  bound."  "Faith,"  says 
Grimes  and  Jim    Duff;  And  I've  made  my-  self  drink-  ing  year  health  quite     a    baste,    So,       I 


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416 


OUR   FAMILIAR   SONGS. 


ss  —  V~JU7  —  r  —  T  —  f~~f  —  Jr~F  —  T^  —  T~ 

-*  0  2  9  N  ^  1 

^     thought  the  best   way    to     do      that  was   to     teaze  ;    "  Now,    Ro  -     ry,    be        ais   -   y,"  sweet 
Ro-ry,  "I'd    rath-er   love     you  than  the  ground."  "  Now,    Ro  -     ry,    I'll      cry,     if      you 
think,  aft  -  cr      that,    I   may      talk    to    the   priest;"*  Then     Ro  -     ry,  the  rogue,  stole    his 

f-'-   -              *—  '—           -,  j  1  £  1  —  t- 
ff7T$  —                                                   '—f  •  •  «  M  sf  T 

=J  —  J  —  —  J  —  |=d 

—  ir—  ;  — 

^4-     r-    Ua  J.  a    ^ 

=  r 
^  a^  //A 

V  j  —                      f^-*  0  

km^—  «  —  •  —  J    f  ^  —  f*  —  —  h  —  1^   J*   f  /  •  \  *  —  h  —  F  —  r^  i/  —  u— 

yi-                      _J  j-^-L  -J    J     0     0                               -^—v- 

Kathleen  would  cry,           Re   -     proof  on    her   lip  —  but    a      smile    in       her    eye,  "  With  your 
don't  let    me     go,           Sure  I  dhrame  ev'  -  ry  night  that  I'm      hat  -  ing     you      so  I"  "Oh  !"  says 
arm  'round  her  neck,           So           soft  and  so  white,  without     free  -  kle        or   speck,  And     he 

$\b  v\t  i   J"  j   J       i       *i    ^^n    i      ~\ 

*         0        0       cJ         1     ' 

^S?  ^  —      —  ^f  —  ^*  —  ^_                                      -j  ~d  d  £  ^  4 

|  J  !^j  

m 

ftf//«  7/«?f<?. 
/7N 

[<•}..  b  —  —                                     =  —                                               •  2  1 

M             tf              *1 

^"T?~  JT  —      *                                                         ^^~^^^~^         1         1         1           1 

J 

jf~  I  v           ^            A                                           IS            N            i^         \ 

w             K 

/Lb  h                    pp                                      ^v^^^. 

PL              N                  h              ^ 

rCF)p  P    l^  ^  h  f  *  *  *  —  •  —  it  —  J      J      J 

—fX  PS  P  H—      —  J 

tricks     I     don't  know,    in    troth,  what  I'm     a  -  bout,  Faith  you've  teas'd  till  I've  put    on   my 
Ro  -   ry,  "  that  game    I'm     de  -   light  -  ed    to     hear,      For   dhrames  al-  ways     go     by   con- 
look'd    in      her    eyes    that    were  beam-ing  with  light,  And  he    kiss'd  her  sweet  lips  —  don't  you 

tJ 

j  j    ;=*= 
u  r  r   *  r  r  i 

£s&yess 
[ffij?        s       ^     /         I  —  -r 

_^  

jyy 

cloak  in  -side     out."    "Ohl"  jew  -  el,"  says    Ro   -   ry,  "  that  same    is     the  way,       You've 
thrair-ies,  my    dear;       Ohl    jew-   el,    keep  dream  -  ing     that  same  till  you   die,      And  bright 
think  he     is      right?  "  Now,   Ro  -   ry,    leave    off,      sir,  —  you'll  hug  me    no  more,       That's 

tJ                                     1    colla  voce.           "5-      •»•                -*•      •»•    • 

f^\,-c  0  f  /•—  *  !  [—  |  ,_ 

^—  ,  J   -^—  q 

^Li/—  ;  '  ;  '  '  F  —  —  LS-  i  L 

^r-            J. 

JKORY   O'  MORE. 


^TF-F  —  F—  F  —  h—  r-r- 

!\    ~N  N— 

~^  —  P  —  =  —  K  —  IT 

—  ^  ] 

8z       -?—£—•—  J—  j^-^-V—  -^—  J—  '-J  —  F 

thrat-ed    my    heart  for   this     ma  -  ny      a      day,  And  'tis   plaz'd  that      I 
morning  will    give  dirt  -  y    night  the  black   lie,  And  'tis   plaz'd  that      I 
eight  times  to  -  day  that  you've  kiss'd  me  be  -  fore;"  "Then     here    goes     an 

am,     and  why 
am,     and  why 
-  oth  -    er,"  says 

<TT  fr    "*  —  ^—  J  —  *  —  J- 
\  ^  A  A  .  Sf  _2f 
1  y                 -i-    -r           ffi_    :£ 

/57TT                     1  1 

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1—  *  —  »  —  J  —  t- 

—  ,-1  —  ;  — 

i* 

CJl     V                 *                                      1                      J 

Wh   U        1                   '          «     • 

-       !>'-.  ~VJ       .  ^  =4- 

f                   ~j 

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L 

nr* 

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h^-^J 

N    ^     ^     f  \  i*      „ 

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-ft- 

-7  —  r  p  —  "pr 

not,      to        be 
not,      to       be 
he,    "  to    make 

^-  ^—  -i  *  «  =  ^  u  >~  ~*  f  —  f  —  ^—  H 

sure?  For    'tis       all      for    good   luck,"  says  bold     Ro  -   ry       O'More. 
sure?  Since  'tis       all      for     good  luck,"  says  bold     Ro  -   ry       O'More. 
sure,   For  there's  luck     in       odd   nuni  -  bers,"  says   Ro  -   ry       O'More. 

—  N  sr-  a  n         J  ^                              ^                                    1           I      1  1 

J 

i 

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pf         Si            «S 

:  2=3 

1 

r  •    •  i  .^3 

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:  if  V 

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r  •      '  JL.  3 

H 

THE  LAIRD  O'   COCKPEN. 

THE  words  of  this  song  are  by  LADY  NAIKNE,— all  but  the  last  two  stanzas,  which 
were  written  by  Miss  FERRIER,  a  Scottish  authoress,  best  known  by  her  novel  of 
"Marriage." 

The  air  is  very  old,  and  was  once  called  "  When  she  cam'  ben,  she  bobbit."  Still 
earlier  it  was  entitled  "  Cockpen."  The  Laird  of  Cockpen  was  a  companion-in-arms  and 
attached  friend  of  Charles  II.  He  fought  with  him  at  Worcester,  and  formed  one  of  the 
merry  monarch's  little  court  at  the  Hague.  The  Laird  was  famous  for  musical  skill,  and 
an  air  called  "  Brose  and  Butter,"  was  an  especial  favorite  with  the  exiled  King.  At  the 
Kestoration,  the  Laird's  appeal  for  the  return  of  property  he  had  lost  in  following  the  royal 
standard,  was  completely  ignored.  He  was  not  even  given  an  audience.  Cockpen  then 
obtained  leave  to  play  for  a  service  which  Charles  attended.  All  went  well  until  the  clos- 
ing anthem,  when  the  ears  of  the  retiring  worshippers  were  saluted  with  the  lively  tune  of 
"Brose  and  Butter."  The  King  hastened  to  the  organ-gallery,  and  declared  that  Cockpen 
had  "almost  made  him  dance."  "I  could  dance,  too,  if  I  had  my  lands  again,"  said  the 
player.  The  request  was  granted,  and  the  old  air  went  only  by  his  name. 

(27) 


418 


OUK   FAMILIAR    SONQS. 


All 

egro. 

—  if  to  —  s    ' 

f\    1  V  

.  'k.  ^  —  s.  f  '  ff   r 

—  f~-  ^=  —  1 

MfflT"  nn  i  '  Jv  •  J  •'  *  »  w"  i  ji  —  p  p  i  —  j  ..  l  J  '.  jij'fEuiLfprr  -•  u   i 

vy  tt  i>  i  j-   F  *  p  t,         —j—j—j  —  p  c  '  *j/  •*                —  v  u  j  —  ^— 

1.  The    Laird  o'  Cockpen  he's  proud  an'  he's  great,  His    mind  is  ta'enupwi'the  things  o'  the  state  ;  He 
2.  Doun  bv  the  dyke-side     a         la-dy  did  dwell,  Athis       ta  -   ble-  head  he  Ihocht  she'd  look  well:  M'- 
3.  His  wig  was  weel-pouther'd,  as  gude  as  when  new,  His  waistcoat  was  white,  his  coat  it  was  blue  ;  He 

.,£         L)     -                  1                     "1                         -1                                    ««,                         I                  «,                             «1                                    <H>« 

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—  J\  —  N  N  \—  H 

•     J  .    J 

V                               V                                                                                 '                   V             '          ¥             ¥                                                       www 

want-ed      a    wife    his    braw  house  to  keep,     But        fa-vourwi'  woo-  in'  was    fashious    to  seek. 
Cleish's      aedochtera'     Clav-ers'-ha'  Lee,       A        pen  -ni  -less  lass   wi'  a      lang  pod  -  i  -  gree. 
put    on      a   ring,      a    sword,  and  cock'd  hat  ;  And     wha  could  re  -  fuse     the    Laird  wi'   a'  that? 

i  ill  —  n 

i  —  4~ 

-d  -1   J    " 

—  jjj  =1  —  jj  s:^ 

~7i  =1  —  ^"H 

\J    4- 

j  f  ^  ^  ..  —  ... 

J  1 

-I  sp- 

L-f  i  ' 

-*• 

rd  .    J    .    i 

—  J  s  —  ii-H 

(£.£•*_                      SJ  

J  -  - 

—  4  =1  0_  =1  

J      ^   J      ^= 

—  ^  =  r-H 

He  mounted  his  mare,  and  rade  cannilie: 

An'  rapped  at  the  yett  o'  Clavers'-ha'  Lee. 

"  Gae  tell  Mistress  Jean  to  come  speedily  ben : 

She's  wanted  to  speak  wi'  the  Laird  o'  Cockpen." 

Mistress   Jean  she  was  makin'   the  elder-flower 

wine  — 

"  What  brings  the  Laird  here  at  sic  a  like  time  ?" 
She  put  aff  her  apron,  an*  on  k«r  silk  goun, 
Her  mutch  wi'  red  ribbons,  an'  gaed  awa'  doun.   • 

An'  when  she  came  ben,  he  bowed  fu'  low  ; 

An'  what  was  his  errand  he  soon  let  her  know. 
Amazed   was  the   Laird  when   the  lady  said  — 

«  Na." 
An'  wi'  a  laigh  curtsie  she  turned  awa'. 


Dumbfoundered  was  he  —  but  nae  sigh  did  he  gie'; 
He  mounted  his  mare,  and  rade  cannilie  ; 
An'  aften  he  thocht,  as  he  gaed  through  the  glen, 
"  She's  daft  to  refuse  the  Laird  o'  Cockpen." 

And  now  that  the  Laird  his  exit  had  made, 
Mistress  Jean  she  reflected  on  what  she  had  said; 
"Oh!  for  ane  I'll  get  better,  it's  waur    I'll  get 

ten  — 
I  was  daft  to  refuse  the  Laird  o'  Cockpen." 

Neist  time  that  the  Laird  and  his  lady  were  seen, 
They  were  gaun  arm  in  arm  to  the  kirk  on  the 

green; 

Now  she  sits  in  the  ha'  like  a  weel-tapit  hen, 
But  as  yet  there's  nae  chickens  appear'd  at  Cockpen 


KATE    KEARNEY, 

ROBERT  OWENSON,  whom  his  daughter  calls  "  as  fine  a  type  of  an  Irish  gentleman  as 
Ireland  ever  sent  forth,"  was  an  actor,  and  manager  of  a  theatre  in  Dublin,  in  the  latter 
half  of  the  last  century.  He  played  in  England,  and  won  the  daughter  of  a  wealthy  Eng- 
lish gentleman,  whose  parents  never  forgave  the  marriage.  The  early  days  of  SIDXE  y ,  daugh- 
ter of  the  youthful  pair,  were  spent  in  scenes  of  dire  poverty ;  but  as  soon  as  she  was  able,  the 
spirited  girl  began  to  plan  means  for  bettering  her  situation.  She  became  a  governess, 
and  soon  an  authoress.  Her  story  of  "  The  Wild  Irish  Girl"  was  immediately  and  im- 
mensely popular,  and  brought  her  money  and  reputation.  DR.  CHARLES  MORGAN,  an 
.Englishman,  who  is  described  as  "a  tall,  handsome  student — a  man  of  great  erudition, 


K A  TE    KEARNEY. 


419 


speculative  power,  and  singular  observation,"  fell  in  love  with  the  gay,  brave,  bright  girl, 
and  married  her.  Dr.  Morgan  was  knighted,  and  his  ready-witted  wife  became  a  volumin- 
ous writer,  and  an  entertainer  of  the  literary  and  fashionable.  They  traveled  on  the  con- 
tinent, and  then  settled  in  London.  Lady  Morgan  survived  her  husband  for  sixteen  years, 
and  while  life  lasted  was  a  lively,  interesting,  indispensable  woman  of  society;—  eccentric, 
but  full  of  charity  and  pleasant  acts.  She  says  : 

"  I  know  I  am  vain  ;  but  I  have  a  right  to  be  so.  Look  at  the  number  of  books  I 
have  written  (more  than  seventy  volumes).  Did  ever  woman  move  in  a  brighter  sphere 
than  I  do?  My  dear,  I  have  three  invitations  to  dinner  to-day;  one  from  a  Duchess, 
another  from  a  Countess,  a  third  from  a  Diplomatist  —  I  will  not  tell  you  who  —  a  very  naughty 
man,  who,  of  course,  keeps  the  best  society  in  London.  Now,  what  right  have  I,  my 
father's  daughter,  to  this?  What  am  I?  A  pensioned  scribbler!  Yet  I  am  given  gifts 
that  queens  might  covet.  Look  at  that  little  clock;  that  stood  in  Marie  Antoinette's 
dressing-room.  Princes  and  princesses,  and  celebrities  of  all  kinds,  have  presented  me 
with  the  souvenirs  you  see  around  me,  and  they  would  make  a  wiser  woman  vain." 

She  used  to  say  that  she  was  bora  in  "ancient  ould  Dublin,"  upon  a  Christmas  day; 
but  she  always  forgot  to  add  the  year.  The  best  authorities  say  it  was  in  1777,  and  the 
cyclopaedias  say  :  "  It  is  usually  stated  that  she  was  bom  in  1786,  but  as  she  refuses  to  tell 
the  date  of  her  birth,  'because  dates  are  so  cold,  false,  and  erroneous,'  the  reader  of  her 
autobiography  will  do  well  to  add  about  ten  years  to  her  age."  A  literary  friend  said  to 
her  :  "  Lady  Morgan,  I  bought  one  of  your  books  to-day.  May  I  tell  you  the  date  ?"  "Do," 
she  answered,  "but  say  it  in  a  whisper."  "Eighteen  hundred  and  three  !"  She  lifted  her 
hand  and  looked  unutterable  things.  Lady  Morgan  died,  April  16,  1859. 

Her  song  is  set  to  an  old  Irish  melody. 


Andante  con  espress. 


ffc                                            Ik 

^              ^         ^5 

s  s  

i  ^-3  -g  

\-s   r-  «•  j    - 

~7  3 

ffl-ff  8  7~  0-^-0  -P—  r- 

1.  Oh!           did         you     not 
2.  For  that    eye          is       so 

9              *              |                    m              t               I               A 

hear      of       Kate       Kear-ney? 
mo  -    dest    -   ly         beam  -  ing, 

r*          *         i 
•          • 

She 
You 

E 

*                -4 

-1                   .N 

3                    -4      • 
—1  ^ 

•     *i      '      i   * 
*^    •*•           *^  •*• 

i          ,n_ 

£4L«j_,  

-1  :  *  — 

*          3= 

—  *  —       —  »  — 

—  *  —                    —  *- 

—9  ^ 

-44—  a-Jf  S  s  —  -*^*  K-  s/~K  — 

^"  tt              —  ?  *  —  "^^  ^  *  ^ 

-^            0      —  ?            *                     »N    / 

—  ^—  ?  i  "  T—  f 

—  1>-     -      &           i^                            i> 

y-  —  v  —               —  t  —  —  —  -"-v  —  w  ^  L  —                          —  ' 

lives     on      the    banks     of      Kil  -  lar   -ney;                          From  the  glance    of    her  eye,    slum 
ne'er  think   of      mis  -  chief  she's   dream-ing  ;                             Yet,           Oh  I    I     can    tell    how 

s  **  ^^  ^ 

t  —  r-f-^ 
•  i    i/ 

*"        •*"  ^ 

\   _        '«-       9                           9                                            ' 

-r    >^—  '  i 

420 


OUR  FAMILIAR  SONGS. 


dan    -  gcr,      and     fly,  For 

fa     -    tal        the    spell          That 

*         -4 


fa    -      tal's    the      glance     of        Kate    Kear        -     ney. 
lurks        in      the '     eye         of       Kate    Kear       -    ney. 


Oh !  should  you  e'er  meet  this  Kate  Kearney, 
Who  lives  on  the  banks  of  Killarney, 
Beware  of  her  smile,  for  many  a  wile 
Lies  hid  in  the  smile  of  Kate  Kearney. 


Tho'  she  looks  so  bewitchingly  simple, 
Yet  there's  mischief  in  every  dimple  ; 
And  who  dares  inhale,  the  sigh's  spicy  gale, 
Must  die  by  the  breath  of  Kate  Kearney. 


O  WHISTLE,  AND  I'LL  COME  TO  YOU  MY  LAD. 

THE  words  of  this  song  are  by  EGBERT  BURNS,  but  there  is  doubt  as  to  the  origin  of 
the  air,  which  was  a  great  favorite  with  him.  Ireland  claims  it,  and  has  long  known  it 
under  the  title  of  "Noble  Sir  Arthur;"  but  one  JOHN  BRUCE,  a  Scottish  fiddler,  claimed  it 
stoutly,  and  Burns  said  of  him,  "This  I  know,  Bruce,  who  was  an  honest  man,  though  \\ 
red-wud  Highlander,  constantly  claimed  it;  and  by  all  the  old  musical  people  in  Dumfries 
he  is  believed  to  be  the  author  of  it."  Burns  wrote  two  sets  of  words  for  it. 

Allegro. 

"^ 


O     whistle,  and  I'll     come  to  you,  my  lad,     O  whis-tle,  and  I'll   come  to  you  my    lad!      Tho' 


»i —     ii     •"  I        i      ~~ —  — 

-i — .•*  i     i    -•*'- — i r*^ 

*      I      !    -rrH-     i— r~     — i— *—• 

•*•      *^         Tt-    •*•  -*    •» 


fa  -  ther  and  mother      and    a' should  gae  mad,       O    whistle,    and  I'll    come   to    you,  my    lad. 


1 .  But  wa  -  ri  -  ly    tent   when  ye  come  to  court  me,  And  come  na  un-less  the  back  yett  be    a  - 

2.  At  kirk  or     at    mar  -  ket,whene'er  ye  meet  me.  Gang  by  me  as  tho' that  ye  cared  na  a 

3.  Aye  vow  and  pro  -  test    that  ye  care  na  for  me,  And  whyles  ye  may  lichtly  my  beau-ty    a 


jee;  Syne 
flie.  But 
wee;  But 


0    WHISTLE,   AND   I'LL    COME  TO  YOU  MY  LAD. 


up    the  back  style  and  let    nae  -  bo  -  dy  see,    And  come  as    ye    were   na   corn-in'    to     me.       o" 
steal  me     a  blink  o'  your  bon  -nie  black  e'e,    Yet  look   as    ye    were   na   look-in'    at    me.       O 
court  na     an  -  ith  -  er,  tho'  jok  -  in'    ye     be,     For  fear  that  she'll  wyle  your  fan-cy  frae  me.       O 


wbis-tle,  and  I'll      come  to     you,  my   lad,     0    whis-tle,    and  I'll    come  to  you  my    lad!      Tho' 


^=3*^==] 

-|— * -j      I    *    -H 


9S: 


»_ U-! * i » 1 «— 3 

2 — k«- 2 « Z » 1 — M 


fa  -  ther  and  mother      and    a' should  gae  mad,       O    whistle,    and  I'll    come   to    you,  my    lad. 


ROY'S  WIFE  OF  ALDIVALLOCH. 

MRS.  GKANT,  author  of  this  famous  song,  was  born  in  Ireland,  of  Scottish  parents.  She 
married  her  cousin,  Mr.  Grant,  of  Carron,  on  the  river  Spey,  and  the  name  of  her  home  was 
added  to  her  own,  to  distinguish  her  from  another  Mrs.  Grant,  also  Scotch,  and  a  song- 
writer. She  afterwards  married  Dr.  Murray,  of  Bath,  England,  where  she  died  about  the 
year  1814. 

Several  rhymers,  and  even  Burns,  wrote  rhymes  for  this  air ;  but  none  have  supplanted 
those  of  Mrs.  Grant.  I  restore  two  stanzas  which  add  to  the  originality  of  the  conception 
and  the  sentiment  of  the  song. 

The  air  was  composed  by  NEIL  Gow,  the  famous  Scottish  piper  and  musician.  It  waa 
called  "  The  Ruffian's  Rant,"  but  since  the  publication  of  these  words,  it  has  been  known 
only  as  "  Roy's  Wife  of  Aldivalloch." 


422 


OUR    FA  MIL  I  All    SONUS. 


Roy's  wife       of      Al    -    di  -  val  -  loch,     Roy's  wife        of       Al   -     di  -   val  -  loch, 


P  -  SJ 
-  - 


1 


1 


(She 

"Wat        ye     how      she    cheat  -    ed     me,        As     I        came  o'er      the  braes        o'    Bal-loch?-j   O, 

(Her 


vow'd,    she  swore     she     wad      be     mine,     She  said      she    lo'ed      me    best     of      o  -  ny;    But, 
she....         was       a       can   -   ty     quean,  "Weel  could   she  dance     the  High  -land  walloch;  How- 
hair       sae    fair,     her     een       sae     clear,    Her  wee       bit     mou'     sae  sweet  and   bonnie  ;     To 


^g 


^3^=i^f 


oh!  the  fie  -  kle,  faith  -  less  quean,  She's  ta'en  the  Carle,  and  left  her  Johnnie. 
hap  -  py  I,  had  she  been  mine,  Or  I'd  been  Roy  of  Al  -  di  -  val-loch. 
me  she  ev  -  er  will  be  dear,  Tho'  she's  for  -  ev  -  er  left  her  Johnnie. 


ROY'S    WIFE    OF  ALDIVALLOCII. 


423 


Roy's  wife       of       Al    -    di  -  val  -  loch,      Roy's  wife       of      Al   -     di  -   val  -  loch, 


^EaE^Ejj 

.0— ^ 0 — 


Wat       ye     how      she    cheat  -    ed     me,       As       I       came  o'er      the    braes       o'    Bal-loch? 


LOVELY   MARY  DONNELLY. 

WILLIAM  ALLINGHAM,  who  wrote  the  words  of  this  song,  was  born  in  Ballyshannon, 
Ireland,  in  1828.  His  father  was  a  banker  in  that  town,  and  the  son  received  a  good 
education  and  became  a  poet  of  acknowledged  ability.  In  his  "English  Note-Books," 
under  date  of  February  23,  1854,  Hawthorne  says :  "  There  came  to  see  me  the  other  day, 
a  young  gentleman,  with  a  mustache  and  a  blue  cloak,  who  announced  himself  as  William 
Allingham,  and  handed  me  a  copy  of  his  poems,  a  thin  volume,  with  paper  covers,  pub- 
lished by  Eoutledge.  I  thought  I  remembered  hearing  his  name,  but  had  never  seen  any 
of  his  works.  His  face  was  intelligent,  dark,  pleasing,  and  not  at  all  John-Bullish.  He 
said  that  he  had  been  employed  in  the  Customs  in  Ireland,  and  was  now  going  to  London 
to  live  by  literature,—  to  be  connected  with  some  newspaper,  I  imagine.  He  had  been  in 
London  before,  and  was  acquainted  with  some  of  the  principal  literary  people,— among 
others,  Tennyson  and  Carlyle.  He  seemed  to  have  been  on  rather  intimate  terms  with 
Tennyson.  ...  We  talked  awhile  in  my  dingy  and  dusky  Consulate,  and  he  then  took 
leave.  His  manners  are  good,  and  he  appears  to  possess  independence  of  mind."  Alling- 
ham has  done  much  and  varied  literary  work,  including  several  volumes  of  poems,  and 
since  1874  has  been  the  editor  of  Fr user's  Magazine. 

The  music  of  this  song  was  written  by  THEODORE  T.  BARKER. 


1.  0      love  -  ly 

2.  The  dance  of 

3.  Oh,  you're  the 


Ma  -    rv     Don  -  nel  -  ly,     it's    you       I 
last    Whitman  -   day-night    ex  -  ceed    -  ed 
flow'r  o'       wo  -  man  -  kind,  in     coun-try 


love 
all 
or 


the  best! 
>re, 


No 
The 


424 


OUR  FAMILIAR  SONGS. 


at    h       *"    " 

-r^*~^        •  -•     *    •                                 N  F       « 

*                ^«- 

flf    -     ty       girls       were    round           you,        I'd        hard  -  ly        see           the     rest, 
pret  -   ty        girl         for    miles      a    -  round    was        mis  -  sing    from         the     floor  ; 
high-  er           I           ex  -   alt....          you,       the        low  -  er        I'm         cast    down, 

7      r^* 

Be 
But 
If 

g:  

*=*   3    i    5 

_J_                                                  _,_  !  jfc  |_i   _^ 

•*•-*•               4              ^           A. 

•wr 

—  i=:        - 
* 

canto. 

^f  B  

—g,  *  —  g  =— 

—  «T~  — 

,Z  —  *j_!  .  2  

W           ~               J            7                  •                             • 

\                                      0.                                             \                                                                                   „'     . 

2  

s.                   *         § 

N-i 1 1^** — i 

.« • —  — - — F5-4-      —  u-'- 

F»* —     ^1* — * — 

V > -L-TT- — ^  -^^s^"— 


what       it       may,       the     time    of       day,        the    place      be      where      it        will,  Sweet 

Ma    -    ry       kept        the     belt     of      love,        and    Oh!      but        she        was      gay!  She 

some     great    lord     should  come  this     way,        and   see      your      beau  -   ty      bright,  And 


looks    of        Ma    -   ry      Don   -  nel  -.ly, 
danced    a         jig,      she    sang         a      song. 


they  bloom      be   -    fore      me        still.  Her 

that  took       my      heart      a    -      way.  When 


you 


to 


be 


his       la 


dy, 


I'd    own 


was       but      right. 


O! 


uL  ~*    "**  '  "*'    ~*~\ 

s                            * 

C  -^  -N  *  :  S  —-  ^B 

eyes      like      moun  -tain       wa   -    ter           that's    flow  -  ing       on            a      rock,                     TIow 
she      stood      up       for       danc  -  ing,           her      steps    were       so         com  -  plete,                    The 
might     we       live       to    -  geth  -    er             in        lof    -    ty        pal    -      ace    hall,                   Where 

cres.  un  poco. 
J*                  *f                     * 

« 

i             .             '           j       \             '    -  -            -1  

=  t~  i  ^  tt  r" 

_•__  }  L--  1  

s       *         '         •         3 

-*-                 EMI- 

LOVELY  MARY  DONNELLY. 


clear    they    are,         how  dark      they    are!    and  they  give     me      many       a    shock.  Red 

mu    -sic     near-  ly  kill'd       it  -  self         to  lis   -ten       to         her     feet;  The 

joy    -  f ul      mu  -  sic  ris       -  es      and     where        scar  -  let      cur    -  tains    fall !  O ! 


Izb  ~*      ~* 

s  s— 

N           "^ 

s                 s 

—  1<  f2  j^—  rt- 

»                     w         f' 

\J          *                *                 *     •              3                0                9  0 

row    -  ans     warm         in        sun  -  shine,              and 
fid    -  dler  moaned      his       blind  -  ness,               he 
might    we       live          to    -  geth   -  er,                  in  a 

|—  j     .    j     "       H*    ^_j_               _4p_| 

wet   -  ted      with        a      shower,           Could 
heard      her        so      much  praised,             But 
cot   -  tage    mean      and   small,              With 

fm    *f         ~*   •    7   '     -^    " 

•9       —  IN     9 

S 

7            I            |            1   . 

*l         """ 

H 

+j 

3- 

W^  * 

3 

«-      ' 

TT 

r\* 

\ 

—  J                                      B        " 

Z      «l 

—  d  1  

—  |  ~x  — 

-*—  

tvz//. 


J/_  ^_£.  *  : 

^  W  g—  ^        f_  H  ;»?!  ^j- 

—                               ^     La 

—            i         i           I                -        5^  *         _i 

B* 

ne'er      ex  -  press     the    ( 
bless  -    ed      him  -    self 
sods       of    grass      the 

-harm-  ing       lip,           that    has       me         in           its 
he    wasn't     deaf,         when  once     her      voice      she    i 
on    -    ly       roof,          and    mud      the         on    -      ly 

>ow'r.            O 
•ais'd.             O 
wall.              O 

Up?  j—  j  n 

PT    "]  —  "™  1    7    -  j~7     -f    *   -  j   : 

.  | 

&      1    i    i 

rail. 

—  1  1  

-J—    J     , 

^'    ¥-.                      9 

%                           9          ft                ~=i- 

1  1 

_q  :  —  brf  J 

™^  0  1  1 

a  tempo. 


~j[  —  ^  ^>  !*  ^~ 

—»—.  ^  

h  £  :  —  !s  ^_ 

—  ^  ^~ 

love  -  ly        Ma    -    ry 
love  -  ly         Ma    -    ry 
love  -  ly        Ma    -    ry 

Don  -  nel  -  ly,        it's 
Don  -  nel  -   ly,        it's 
Don  -  nel  -  Jy,       your 

you       I       love       the 
you        I        love        the 
beau  -  ty's      my       dis 

.  «  ...+  .   j     .-jH 

1            '       i     • 

best!                    If 
best!                     If 
-  tress,                   It's 

a  tempo. 

t*                         *t                                 «T 

,    *    *     * 

r-1  —  a  —  i  —  r- 

*       * 

—  i  _j  .+—  -  1  — 

9  y  9 

cot. 

jl                                 | 
^ 

•*  ' 

:-3                J—  =^ 

1 

426 


OUR  FAMILIAR  SONGS. 

N     »s 


fif    •     ty       girls       were    round  you,        I'd       hard  -  ly        see 

far       too       beau   -  teous    to       be      mine,    but  I'll  nev  -  er      wish 


the     rest. 
it       less. 


Be 

The 


what       it       may,       the     time    of       day,       the    place      be      where      it        will,  Sweet 

proud  -  est      place     would    fit     your    face,       and      I          am      poor       and      low,  But 


a  tempo. 


ad  lib. 


-?- 


— ^ — 


—9=2 


looks    of        Ma    -   ry      Don   -  nel  -  ly,  they     bloom     be  -    fore      me  still, 

bless  -  ings       be         a  -    bout     you,  dear,  wher  -    ev    -     er       you      may          go  I 


=S=$S=-$j^^ 


a  tempo. 


^1 


COME,   HASTE  TO  THE  WEDDING. 

THE  music  of  this  old  English  song  is  said  to  have  been  composed  by  DR.  THOMAS 
ARNE. 


1.  Come,  haste    to    the   wedding,  ye  friends  and  ye  neighbors,  The    lov  -ers  their  bliss  can    no 

2.  Let       en-  vy,   let    pride,       let     hate  and  am  -bi  -  tion,  Still  crowd  to     and  beat    at    the 

3.  With    rea-son  we    taste  of  each  heart-stirr-ing  pleasure,  With   rea-  son  we  drink  of    the 


COME,  HASTE  TO  THE  WEDDING. 


427 


m 


long  -  er     de  -    lay, 

breast  of    the    great, 

full-flow-ing   bowl; 


For  -  get  all  your  sor-rows,your  cares,  and  your  la-bors,  And 
To  such  wretched  passions  we  give  no  ad  -  mis-sion,  But 
Are  jo-  cund  and  gay,  but  all  with  -  in  meas-ure,  For 


— 


£ 


let     ev'  -  ry    heart  beat  with   rapt-ure    to  -  day. 

leave  them   a  -  lone    to     the     wise  ones   of     state. 

fa  -  tal    ex  -  cess  will   en  -  slave  the  free    soul. 


Ye  vo  -  ta-  ries        all,  at- 

We       boast    of    no  wealth,  But  con- 
Come,     come   at  our    bid-ding,     To 


S 


*EEH^r  ^_\_^-rrr-t^. 


tend    to    my       call,   Come,    rev  -  el     in  pleas-ures  that    nev  -  er   can   cloy. 

tent-ment  and    health,     In     mirth  and  in  friend-ship  our     moments  em-  ploy.    Come,       see 

this    hap  -  py   wedding,  No      care  shall  in-  trude  here  our   bliss    to     an  -  noy. 


^^ 


ru  -   ral    .  fe   -   lie   -    i    -    ty,  Which  love    and       in  -   no-cence       ev  -   er       en   -   joy. 


428  OUR  FAMILIAR  SOXGS. 

WEEL   MAY  THE   KEEL   ROW. 
THE  Americanized  chorus  of  this  pretty  little  song — 

Light  may  the  boat  row,  the  boat  row,  the  boat  row, 
Light  may  the  boat  row  that  my  lad'H  in  — 

is  exceedingly  familiar,  and  the  movement  of  the  air  is  a  popular  favorite.    The  first  stanza 
of  the  original  song  reads : 

As  I  came  thro'  Laudgate,  thro'  Laudgate,  thro'  Laudgate, 
As  I  came  thro'  Laudgate, 
I  heard  a  lassie  sing,  O,  well,  etc. 

The  tune  is  altered  slightly  from  an  old  melody  called  "  Smiling  Polly." 


Jrh  ^  —               ~^  —  !*  ^~  ~~J  —     ~^      ^      J"     ~j*  —  P"  ^~ 

g)P  4  js--^                                —  -J  *  y  '      '     J  .    -f- 

1.    Oh,    who         is    like       my    John   -    nie,       Sae     leish,     sae  blithe,     sae 
2.    He      has       nae  mair       o'     learn   -    ing      Than    tells       his  week  -   ly 
3.    He  wears       a         blue            bon    -     net,    Blue     bon  -    net,       blue 

n                              i               i                        i 

-*UJ  N--N-] 
-*-      -•- 
bon  -   nie!    He's 
earn  -    ing;   Yet 
bon  -   net,      He 

,  Jl,      9 

1 

A.  b     -^     1          _i                                                mm                        J                      _i 

fih      A             1                 *                  mm                  f      •          f 

J1             J 

IMJ      4-             I                  p                     1                                *                 *l 

1 

t)                      -4-               -4-                 -4-          •*-                 -4-               1- 

TJ    2                                          J                          J          ~i  

-8- 

i  —  h-  1  1 

~d  d  

^b   A 

»       « 

**            J               J                                               _i               J 

i 

*               *                -0-         -0-                *               * 

l")             K.            N                          X            1                               IS            1C                                                                        h 

p             r 

dkb     J  2  3!  ^  *  f  *  J  .     J  y         -fr-  -       —  ^  J— 

J  .    •    *  L  — 

—    —.^^r  H  ^  • 

fore-  most  'mang  the      mo   -    ny     Keel    lads      o'  coal  -   y     Tyne.        He'll 
right  frae  wrang  dis  -  cern  -  ing,     Tho'  brave,  naebruis-e'r       he.          Tho' 
wears     a           blue           bon  -   net,      A      dim  -pie's  in      his      chin;        And 

(/Si  h                                                                                                                      v§ 

set       or  row     so 
he       no  worth  a 
weel     may     the 

W       m               —t  1  *  -4  ^  J  ^~ 

J    -3-        —2  *~2  i  4J.  ^r-    -hit- 

JH4-     .'      ^^    ,j      J       |^ 

~*  *~^ 

/?tt^  r     i*    «          fci  —  ^  —      ~^  —             —  *  —  *  — 

-9—       —  J— 

-f—    —m— 

t)                            ^                                              4  _Ji_                          V    V 
tight  -    Iv,      Or       in     the  dance  sae      spright-ly,    He'll    cut     and  shuf  -  fle 
plack        is,     His      ain    coat  on     his         back    is;     And    nane    can  sav    that 
keel      row,  The         keel      row,   the        keel  row,   And       weel       mav   the 

ip=*~\  —  17  —  t-  H  =n  —  r  — 

j-   r  -g^ 

siijht   -     Iv,     'Tis 
black         is      The 
keel        row   That 

,  1  1  3 

—  ^  i  — 

r|    i     I 

rf      f        1 

'M'  r  —  F  —  '-J  —  J  —  y  —  d^-'-i-  -J- 

WEEL    MAY    THE  KEEL    ROW. 


429 


A—  f  —  K  —  S3 

-1  a  



Ml     i 

v—  ^=F 

-i  H,—  ^ 

fnV      1 
ISTJ 

~        tri 
wl 
rr 

.;_/       ' 

ie,    were    he 
lite     o'      Jol 

~~     — 
not    mine.  | 
in  -  nie's   e'e.    > 
ad's            in.    j 

J                                   *  *                             J 

Weel       may       the       keel      row,    The    keel       row,    the 

•  —  i  1  1  1  1  i  —  i  1  1 

(XL  U 

ij  

i  M. 

j  J  

fctf-        * 

• 

1 

-^            —1 

—  1  ^ 

E  \  J 

u  1^- 

*^ 

3       -«- 
i         i 

-i-i  —  ^ 

I 

L 

2  5r 

i 

[    ^s  « 

0 

=1  ^~ 

—  J  • 

•  f 

—  i  

—  =1  — 

_,  1  

1  —  —  - 

•£ 

1                     I 

I 

• 

•            m 

•4- 
ry          ^^ 

w            m 

^^ 

v_                ^ 

3E 

K  1 

^=r^ 

l       i               II 

zcfc 

\                    p\ 

P 

J^  1 

1                      II 

Cor  «  —  j  —  j— 

1 

H:  *- 

H  SP 

*   * 

j  j  .  n 

-\  —  fc  ±\ 

keel       row,     Weel 

may      the       keel            row 

1  N>  »•  '•s_< 

That         my        lad's 

in. 

i 

i                II 

/   b 

> 

J                          « 

U  V     • 

tf 

• 

S            f 

j 

J               1 

^}       9. 

1 

1 

i 

•  .            II 

l)        * 

=^S 

L 

-*-                       -* 
1                           1 

r-4- 

^  . 

F^Tr  

—  • 

0 

—m—     Hat 

—*T 

—  -j  — 

*~*\?    * 

• 

—  1  1— 

1— 

• 

HI 

•          -*- 

J 

'       -«l               ^^ 

J 

—  i  — 

WAIT  FOR  THE  WAGON. 

THE  two  fortunate  things  in  this  renowned  but  familiar  bit  of  jargon,  are  the  melody 
and  the  name  of  Phillis.  Phillis  suggests  all  that  is  sweet-scented  in  wayside  blooming, 
and  the  wagon  bumps  along  through  the  music  like  a  hay-cart  over  a  corduroy  road. 

The  music  was  composed  by  E.  BISHOP  BUCKLEY,  who  was  born  in  England  about  1810. 
He  came  to  the  United  States,  and  organized  Buckley's  Minstrels  in  1843,  of  which  he  was 
the  most  attractive  feature.  He  died  in  Quincy,  Mass.,  in  1867. 


~N      ~N'     ~2 


--*— ^~ 


Will  you  come  with  me,  my 
Where  the  riv  -  er  runs  like 


Phil-lis    dear,         To      yon  blue  mountain     free, 
nil  -  ver,         And  the    birds  they  sing   so      sweet. 


you    be-lieve,  my      Phil-lis    dear,       Old    Mike,  with  all    his      wealth, 


/ 

Where  the 

I 
Can 


fek    "^      ~^ 

^      •T 

^            "i      J      J 

d  r-z^~ 

bios  -  soms 
have       a 
make    you 

:—  $  -td 

smell      the 
cab   -  bin, 
half       so 

,        '     "T 
•*    i           J 

—  _p                       ' 

sweet  -  est, 
Phil  -  lis, 
hap  -    py, 

5  r^^ 

*              *                                                                    '          «! 

Come    rove        a  -    long     with    me.                   It's 
And    some  -  thing    good       to      eat.                  Come 
As          I        with    youth    and  health?              We'll 

R^T—  •               ^                -  <s  1  J             i 

P-              -3— 

!           * 

3  —  ^pi- 

—  ^^—  ^ 
:i^_        _A. 

J_                  >  . 
-^                     •*•  . 

>              ^ 
*       *       *      «  j 

__l  j  . 

^^ 

^        a 

W*  F- 

^  E 

L_i_           ^_ 

7 

430 


OUR  FAMILIAR   SONGS. 


fek  —  ^ 

F  1 

—  I*    ~ 

N,  s  —  —  N- 

=           -^        3 

ev    -    'r 
lis    -    te 
have       a 

p     i.  

fer  —  «r- 

—  Is  in— 

y       Sun  -  day 
n       to        my 
lit    -     tie 

.          9                   \        9 

morning,                  When 
ato   -  ry,                    It 
farm,                        A 

9         't 

I       ai 

will       r 
horse,     t 

—  ?  

a     by    your 
e  -  lieve    my 
i     pig,     and 

*—    !  ""*] 

side,             We'll 
heart,               So 
cow,             And 

»/  —               * 

—  *~ 

Fr1  =F  1 

4 

—  #  •  

:  9     *  _ 

ft 

2!^  —  f— 

.._     -i 

-p  E  

N==- 

I 

—  * 

\ 

1 

r 

OJ-Jl  P  -f  

__*,  _h_  •;—.                              —  j  j_ 

|  i— 

f*           f* 
~f         ~r 
jump      in    -     to       the 
jump      in    -     to       the 
you       will     mind    the 

*                              0          \          *                     * 

wag  -    on,           And       all                   take        a 
wag  -    on,          And       off                  we       will 
dai   -    ry,         While       I         will     guide     the    p 

ride, 
start, 
lough. 

faf  ?  1""""1""     *~~ 

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CHORUS. 


WAIT  FOB    THE    WAGON. 
-0---0- 


431 


Wait    for   the  wagon,      wait    for   the  wagon,      Wait   for  the  wagon,  and  we'll  all  take  a  ride. 


Wait    for   the  wagon,      wait    for   the  wagon,      Wait   for  the  wagon,  and  we' 11  all  take  a  ride. 


Your  lips  are  red  as  poppies,  your  hair  so  slick 

and  neat, 
All  braided  up  with  dahlias,  and   hollyhocks  so 

sweet ; 
It's  every  Sunday  morning,  when  I  am  by  your 

side, 

We'll  jump  into  the  wagon,  and  all  take  a  ride. 
Wait  for  the  wagon,  etc. 


Together  on  life's  journey,  we'll  travel  till  we 

stop, 
And  if  we  have  no  trouble,  we'll  reach  the  happy 

top; 
Then,  come  with  me,  sweet  Phillis,  my  dear,  my 

lovely  bride, 

We'll  jump  into  the  wagon,  and  all  take  a  ride. 
Wait  for  the  wagon,  etc. 


THE  GROVES  OF  BLARNEY. 

THE  author  of  this  ridiculous  song,  with  its  significant  title,  EICHARD  ALFRED  MILLIKIN, 
an  Irish  poet  and  lawyer,  was  born  in  the  county  Cork,  in  1757,  and  died  in  1815.  The 
"Groves  of  Blarney,"  except  the  fifth  stanza,  was  written  about  1798  or  1799,  and 
is  a  most  singular  blending  of  fancy  and  fact.  Castle  Blarney  was  fortified  in  1689,  and 
really  passed  into  the  hands  of  the  Jeffery  family,  and  it  was  also  besieged,  but  not  by 
Cromwell,  the  Irish  scapegoat.  Lord  Broghill  captured  the  castle  in  1646,  and  a  published 
letter  of  his  exists,  dated  "  Blairney,  August  1st."  In  the  memoir  attached  to  the  poems 
of  MiUikin,  is  the  following  account  of  the  origin  of  "The  Groves  of  Blarney." 

"  An  itinerant  poet,  with  a  view  of  being  paid  for  his  trouble,  composed  a  song  (in 
praise  as  he  doubtless  intended  it)  of  Castle  Hyde,  the  beautiful  seat  of  the  Hyde  family, 
on  the  River  Blackwater;  but  instead  of  the  expected  remuneration,  the  poor  poet  was 
driven  from  the  gate  by  order  of  the  then  proprietor,  who,  from  the  absurdity  of  the  thing, 
conceived  that  it  could  be  only  meant  as  mockery ;  and,  in  fact,  a  more  nonsensical  com- 
position could  hardly  escape  the  pen  of  a  maniac.  The  author,  however,  well  satisfied 
with  its  merits,  and  stung  with  indignation  and  disappointment,  vented  his  rage  in  an 
additional  stanza,  against  the  owner,  and  sang  it  wherever  he  had  an  opportunity  of  raising 
his  angry  voice.  As  satire,  however  gross,  is  but  too  generally  well  received,  the  song 
first  became  a  favorite  with  the  lower  orders,  then  found  its  way  into  ballads,  and  at  length 
into  the  convivial  meetings  of  gentlemen.  It  was  in  one  of  these  that  Millikin  undertook, 


432 


OUR   FAMILIAR   SONGS. 


in  the  gaiety  of  the  moment,  to  produce  a  song  that,  if  not  superior,  should  be  at  least 
equal  in  absurdity  to  'Castle  Hyde,' and  accordingly,  taking  Blarney  for  his  subject,  he  soon 
made  good  his  promise." 

The  fifth  stanza,  beginning  "  Tis  there's  the  kitchen  hangs  many  a  flitch  in,"  was  not 
written  by  Milliken.  It  was  added  at  an  electioneering  dinner  in  the  south  of  Ireland,  and 
is  (probably  incorrectly)  attributed  to  JOHN  LANDER.  It  was  evidently  intended  as  an 
insult  to  Lord  Donoughrnore,  who  happened  to  be  present,  and  turned  its  point  by  ap- 
plauding the  verse,  and  then,  in  a  humorous  speech,  winning  the  company. 

After  Millikin's  death,  the  following  fragment  was  found  among  his  papers : 

O,  Blarney,  in  my  rude,  unseemly  rhymes, 
Albeit  abused,  lo  1  to  thy  bowers  I  come  — 
I  come  a  pilgrim  to  your  shades  again, 
And  woo  thy  solemn  scenes  with  votive  pipe. 
Shut  not  your  glades,  nymphs  of  the  hollow  rock, 
'Gainst  one  who,  conscious  of  the  ill  he  did, 
Comes  back  repentant !  Lead  me  to  your  dens, 
Ye  fays  and  sylvan  beings  —  lead  me  still 
Through  all  your  wildly-tangled  grots  and  groves, 
With  Nature,  and  her  genuine  beauties  full ; 
And  on  another  stop,  a  stop  thine  own, 
I'll  sound  thy  praise,  if  praise  of  mine  can  please, — 
A  truant  long  to  Nature,  and  to  thee  I 

FRANCIS  MAHONY  ("  Father  Prout")  added  a  stanza,  to  introduce  the  appropriate  figure 
of  the  "  Blarney  Stone  "  into  the  otherwise  perfect  scenery : 


There  is  a  stone  there, 
That  whoever  kisses, 
Oh  I  he  never  misses 

To  grow  eloquent ; 
'Tis  he  may  clamber 
To  a  lady's  chamber, 
Or  become  a  member 

Of  Parliament. 


A  clever  spouter 
He'll  soon  turn  out,  or 
An  out-and-out-er, 

•'  To  be  let  alone." 
Don't  hope  to  hinder  him, 
Or  to  bewilder  him, 
Sure?s  he's  a  pilgrim 

From  the  Blarney  Stone. 


.  . 


1.  The  groves  of 

2.  'Tis  La    -  dy 


Blar  -  ney,  they  look    so    charming,  All    by    the  purl -ing  of  sweet  si    -lent 
Jef  -freys  that  owns  this  sta  -  tion,  Like  Al  -  ex  -  an  -  der    or  Queen  Hel  -  en 


streams,  Being  bank'  d  with    po  -  sies     that      spon  -ta  -  neous  grow  there,      Plant  -ed       in 
fair,       There's  no    com  -  mand        -     er     throughout  the         na  -  tion,       For     em   -  u   - 


THE   GROVES    OF  BLARNEY. 


i=£=r^=ziz=: 


sy     and     the    sweet  car  - 
her    that      no  nine  - 


the    sweet    rock    close ; 
with     her       com  -  pare ; 


—  0  •   —  h 


na     -    tion,  The       bloom-ing     pink        and     the     rose     so       fair,.... 
pound  -  er  -Could     dare     to       plun    -    der     her    place     of       strength, 


The    daf-fy-down- 
But     O-H-ver 


sweet,  f ra  -  grant    air. 
her     bat    -   tie  -  ment 


the      li    -     ly,       Flow'rs  that  scent 
her    pum  -  mel,  And  made   a    breach 


dil    -    ly, 
Crom  -  well, 


The  groves  of  Blarney,  they  look  so  charming, 

All  by  the  purling  of  sweet,  silent  streams, 
Being  bank'd  with  posies  that  spontaneous  grow 
there, 

Planted  in  order  by  the  sweet  rock  close  : 
'Tis  there  the  daisy  and  the  sweet  carnation, 

The  blooming  pink  and  the  rose  so  fair  ; 
The  daffy-down-dilly,  beside  the  lily, 

Flowers  that  scent  the  sweet,  fragrant  air. 

'Tis  Lady  Jeffreys  that  owns  this  station, 

Like  Alexander  or  Queen  Helen  fair, 
There's  no  commander  throughout  the  nation, 

For  emulation  can  with  he*"  compare  : 
She  has  castles  round  her  that  no  nine-pounder 

Could  dare  to  plunder  her  place  of  strength  ; 
But  Oliver  Cromwell,  he  did  her  pummel, 

And  made  a  breach  in  her  battlement. 

There's  gravel  walks  there  for  speculation, 

And  conversation  in  sweet  solitude ; 
:Tis  there  the  lover  may  hear  the  dove,  or 

The  gentle  plover  in  the  afternoon  ; 
And  if  a  young  lady  should  be  so  engaging 

As  to  walk  alone  in  those  shady  bow'rs, 
Tis  there  her  courtier  he  may  transport  her 

In  some  dark  fort  or  underground. 


For 


cave    where    no    daylight 


'tis    there's 

enters, 

But  bats  and  badgers  are  for  ever  bred ; 
Being  moss'd  by  nature  that  makes  it  sweeter 

Than  a  coach-and-six,  or  a  feather  bed  ; 
'Tis  there's  the  lake  that  is  stor'd  with  perches, 

And  comely  eels  in  the  verdant  mud, 
Beside  the  leeches  and  the  groves  of  beeches, 
All  standing  in  order  to  guard  the  flood. 

'Tis  there's  the  kitchen  hangs  many  a  flitch  5n» 

With  the  maids  a  stitching  on  the  stair ; 
The  bread  and  biske',  the  beer  and  whiskey, 

Would  make  you  frisky,  if  you  were  there ; 
'Tis  there  you'd  see  Peg  Murphy's  daughter, 

A  washing pratees,  forenent  the  door, 
With  Roger  Cleary,  and  Father  Healy, 

All  blood  relations  to  Lord  Donoughmore. 

There's  statues  gracing  this  noble  place  in, 

All  heathen  goddesses  so  fair  ; 
Bold  Neptune,  Plutarch,  and  Nicodemus, 

All  standing  naked  in  the  open  air. 
So  now  to  finish  this  brave  narration, 

Which  my  poor  geni  could  not  entwine, 
But  were  I  Homer,  or  Nebuchadnezzar, 

'Tis  in  ev'ry  feature  I  would  make  it  shine. 


434 


OUli,    FAMILIAR    SONGS. 

A  FROG  HE  WOULD  A  WOOING  GO. 


"THE  Froggie  came  to  the  mill  door"  was  one  of  the  songs  in  Wedderburn's  'Com- 
playnt  of  Scotland/  1548.  On  Npvember  21, 1580,  a  license  was  granted  to  E.  WHITE,  of 
a  "  ballad  of  a  most  strange  wedding  of  the  froggie  and  the  mousie." 


fr 


1.    A   frog       he  would      a  woo    -  ing  go, 

2-  Off        he    sat      with  his   op    -   era  hat, 


Heigh    -      ho!      said  Row-ly, 
Heigh    -      ho!      said  llow-ly, 


frog      he    would    a      woo  -    ing    go, 
Off        he     sat  with  his   op   -    era  hat, 


Whether  his  mother  would  let  him    or     110,  With  a 
On       the    road    he      met  with  a     rat,  With  a 


Row  -  ly     pow  -  ly,      gammon  and  spinach,  Heigh  -  o  !      said    An  -  tho  -  ny      Row-ly. 


They  soon  arrived  at  the  mouse's  hall, 

Heigho,  etc. 
They  gave  a  loud  tap,  and  they  gave  a  loud  call ! 

With  a  rowly  powly,  etc. 

Pray,  Mrs.  Mouse,  are  you  within, 

Heigho,  etc. 
Yes,  kind  sirs,  I'm  sitting  to  spin, 

With  a  rowly  powly,  etc. 

<Tome,  Mrs.  Mouse,  now  give  us  some  beer, 

Heigho,  etc. 
That  froggy  and  I  may  have  some  cheer, 

With  a  rowly  powly,  etc. 

Pray  Mr.  Frog  will  you  give  us  a  song, 

Heigho,  etc. 
Let  the  subject  be  something  that's  not  very  long, 

With  a  rowly  powly,  etc. 

Indeed,  Mrs.  Mouse,  replied  the  frog, 

Heigho,  etc. 
A  cold  has  made  me  as  hoarse  as  a  hog, 

With  a  rowly  powly,  etc. 

Since  you  have  caught  cold,  Mr.  Frog,  mousy  said. 
Heigho,  etc. 


I'll  sing  you  a  song  that  I  have  just  made, 
With  a  rowly  powly,  etc. 

As  they  were  in  glee  and  a  merry  making, 

Heigho,  etc. 
A  cat  and  her  kittens  came  tumbling  in, 

With  a  rowly  powly,  etc. 

The  cat  she  seized  the  rat  by  the  crown, 

Heigho,  etc. 
The  kittens  they  pull'd  the  little  mouse  down, 

With  a  rowly  powly,  etc. 

This  put  Mr.  Frog  in  a  terrible  fright, 

Heigho,  etc. 
He  took  up  his  hat  and  he  wished  them  good  night, 

With  a  rowly  powly,  etc. 

As  froggy  was  crossing  it  over  a  brook, 

Heigho,  etc. 
A  lily  white  duck  came  and  gobbled  him  up, 

With  a  rowly  powly,  etc. 

So  here  is  an  end  of  one,  two  and  three, 

Heigho,  etc. 
The  rat,  the  mouse  and  little  Froggy, 

With  a  rowly  powly,  etc. 


THE  FINE    OLD   ENGLISH  GENTLEMAN.  435 

THE   FINE  OLD   ENGLISH  GENTLEMAN. 

THIS  song  is  altered  from  an  old  ballad,  entitled  "The  old  and  young  Courtier."  Pepya 
writes  in  his  Diary,  June  16,  1668  :  "Come  to  Newbery,  and  there  dined — and  musick:  a 
song  of  the  '  Old  Courtier  of  Queen  Elizabeth/  and  how  he  was  changed  upon  the  coming 
in  of  the  King,  did  please  me  mightily,  and  I  did  cause  W.  Hewer  to  write  it  out."  The 
old  ballad  begins  : 

An  old  song  made  by  an  aged  old  pate 

Of  an  old  worshipful  gentleman,  who  had  a  great  estate, 

That  kept  a  brave  old  house  at  a  bountiful  rate, 

And  an  old  porter  to  relieve  the  poor  at  his  gate ; 

Like  an  old  courtier  of  the  Queen's 

And  the  Queen's  old  courtier. 

The  "  Fine  old  English  Gentleman  "  was  made  the  subject  of  a  curious  copyright  trial, 
an  account  of  which  is  given  by  Mr.  Henry  Phillips,  in  his  "  Eecollections."  He  says: 
"  Having  been  invited  to  an  evening  party  in  the  City,  where  music  was  to  be  the  presiding 
deity,  I  met  (I  believe  for  the  first  time)  an  amateur  of  some  celebrity,  Mr.  Crewe,  whc> 
was  a  bookseller  in  Lamb's,  Conduit  Street,  and  possessed  of  a  beautiful  voice.  He  sang 
the  Irish  melodies  charmingly,  generally  without  accompaniment,  which  gave  them  a 
wildness  and  originality,  that  at  times  was  quite  enchanting.  '  Bich  and  rare  were  the 
gems  she  wore/  was-  one  of  his  great  songs ;  in  fact,  I  think  he  rarely  escaped  without 
singing  it.  This  evening  he  threw  off  his  bardic  mantle,  and  sang  a  song  we  had  never 
heard  before,  'The  Old  English  Gentleman."  All  were  in  raptures  with  it;  'Whose  is  it?' 
'  Where  did  it  come  from  ?'  '  How  did  you  obtain  it  ? '  were  the  questions  put  from  all 
quarters,  terminating  with,  '  Do  sing  it  again ! '  As  for  me,  I  was  in  ecstasies ;  I  saw  in 
an  instant  what  I  could  do  with  it,  and  eagerly  inquired  where  it  could  be  obtained. 
Whether  I  might  introduce  it  to  the  public.  I  felt  it  was  a  fortune  to  me  if  I  could  be  tha 
person  to  do  so.  Mr.  Crewe  informed  me  it  was  a  very  old  song,  and  that  any  one  had  a 
right  to  it.  With  this,  I  begged  a  copy,  which  he  said  he  would  send  me  next  day.  In 
strict  accordance  with  his  promise,  I  received  and  immediately  began  to  study  it.  My 
conception  of  the  reading  was  rapid  in  the  extreme,  and  I  soon  gained  the  confidence 
necessary  for  its  production ;  but  one  thing  presented  itself  as  an  obstacle  to  success,, 
which  was,  that  the  third  verse  related  to  the  death  of  the  old  English  gentleman.  '  This 
won't  do/  thought  I ;  l  the  living  multitudes  do  not  like  to  hear  of  the  old  gentleman 
dying,  so  I  wrote  a  fourth  verse  myself,  which  ran  thus : 

*  These  good  old  times  have  passed  away,  and  all  such  customs  fled, 

We've  now  no  fine  old  gentlemen,  or  young  ones  in  their  stead; 

Necessity  has  driven  hope  and  charity  away, 

Yet  may  we  live  to  welcome  back  that  memorable  day, 

Which  reared  those  fine  old  gentlemen,  all  of  the  olden  time.' 

"  The  first  time  I  sang  it  in  public,  was  at  a  grand  concert  given  on  the  stage  of  her 
Majesty's  Italian  Opera  in  the  Haymarket,  where  Sir  George  Smart  conducted.  We  had  a, 
very  large  orchestra,  led  by  Mori,  and  nearly  all  the  first  Italian  and  English  singers 
appeared  during  the  evening.  Towards  the  end  of  the  first  act,  I  sat  down  to  the  grand 
piano-forte,  and  commenced '  The  old  English  Gentleman.'  At  the  end  of  the  first  verse,  the 
applause  was  great ;  at  the  termination  of  the  second  verse,  still  greater ;  at  the  third,  it 
increased ;  and  at  the  end  such  a  storm  arose  that  I  was  quite  bewildered,  and  could  not 
understand  whether  it  meant  condemnation  of  my  song,  or  a  re-demand.  In  my  hesitation. 
I  hurried  off  the  stage,  and  made  for  our  ante-room  at  the  back.  Sir  George  hastened  af- 
ter me,  saying  rather  angrily,  l  Why  don't  you  come  back  ?' 


436  OUR    FAMILIAR    SONGS 

11  What  is  it,  Sir  George  ?  "  said  I.     "  Are  they  hissing  me  ? n 

"  Hissing ! "  he  replied ;  "  no,  it's  a  tremendous  encore." 

"  And  it  was  an  encore,  indeed,  such  as  I  had  never  received  before,  and  have  never 
witnessed  since.  After  that  you  may  be  sure  I  fired  away  at  the  '  Old  English  Gentleman' 
wherever  I  went.  Next  morning,  my  friend  Mori  asked  me  all  about  this  song,  as  he  was 
anxious  to  publish  it.  I  told  him  all  I  knew,  where  I  first  heard  it,  shewed  him  the  man- 
uscript copy  sent  to  me  by  Mr.  Crewe,  and  that  I  understood  from  that  gentleman  it  was  a 
very  old  song,  and  the  property  of  any  one  who  liked  to  take  it  up.  In  less  than  a  week 
it  appeared  with  my  name  on  the  title-page,  and  a  conspicuous  line  saying  no  copy  was 
correct  or  genuine  but  that  published  by  Mori  and  signed  by  me.  The  song  began  to  sell 
immensely,  and  for  a  few  days  promised  an  abundant  harvest ;  when  lo  !  out  came  an  edi- 
tion by  Mr.  Purday,  of  Holborn,  and  simultaneous  with  that,  half-a-dozen  other  music  shops 
issued  their  version  j  for  it  spread  rapidly  that  I  had  said  it  was  an  old  song  and  the  prop- 
erty of  any  one.  Mr.  Purday  fired  the  first  shot  by  issuing  a  notice  to  all  transgressors 
that  the  song  was  his  property  and  his  alone,  and  demanding  the  withdrawal  of  all  other 
editions,  and  an  account  of  all  the  copies  that  had  been  sold.  A  most  unenviable  mark  I 
stood  in  the  midst  of  all.  this  contention.  I  could  do  no  more  than  repeat  my  information. 
Mr.  Purday  publicly  questioned  my  veracity ;  and  Mr.  Mori  threatened  me  with  all  sorts  of 
vengeance  for  having  deceived  him ;  until,  in  the  end,  all  set  Mr.  Purday  at  defiance,  and 
that  gentleman  having  nothing  left  but  to  bring  the  case  before  a  jury,  an  action  was  con- 
sequently commenced  and  fixed  to  take  place,  with  as  little  delay  as  possible,  in  Westmin- 
ster Hall.  Mr.  Purday  everywhere  asserted  he  had  purchased  the  copyright,  which  was 
not  then  credited ;  for  though  he  was  not  a  very  young-looking  gentleman,  we  were  quite 
sure  he  did  not  live  during  the  reign  of  Elizabeth,  at  about  which  period  we  knew  the 
words  were  written.  So  all  remained  a  mystery  till  the  trial,  which  was  certainly  a  very 
droll  one,  and  caused  more  laughter  than  is  usually  heard  in  courts  of  law. 

"All  the  editions  were  now  withdrawn,  with  the  exception  of  that  claimed  by  Mr.  Pur- 
day, and,  by  the  day  fixed  for  the  trial,  every  species  of  musical  authority  had  been  sum- 
moned, as  it  became  evident  to  the  legal  advisers  that  the  question  must  turn  upon  the 
originality  of  the  melody.  It  would  not  be  sufficient  for  even  the  author  to  make  oath 
that  it  was  his  composition,  if  it  was  like  something  else,  for  people  generally  thought  the 
air  was  familiar.  All  speculation  at  length  ceased,  and  the  musical  world  stood  breathless, 
waiting  the  issue  of  this  interesting  inquiry.  When  the  trial  came  on,  the  court  was 
crowded  with  persons  connected  with  such  matters. 

"After  several  eminent  musicians  had  been  called,  but  had  failed  to  throw  any  light  on 
the  question,  Mr.  Tom  Cooke  was  called.  Up  jumped  Mr.  Tom  into  the  witness-box,  as 
light  as  a  fairy.  Every  one  seemed  under  the  impression  that  this  witness  would  turn  the 
scale,  though  the  barristers  were  much  disposed  to  think,  with  Dr.  Johnson,  that '  fiddlers 
have  have  no  brains.' " 

Counsel. — Your  name  is  Thomas  Cooke,  I  believe?  Tom.  —  So  I've  always  been  led 
to  believe.  Counsel. — And  a  professor  of  music?  Tom. — A  professor  of  the  divine  art. 
Counsel. — We'll  put  the  divinity  aside,  for  the  present,  Mr.  Cooke.  Tom  (sotto  voce). — 
Don't  like  music.  Counsel— Do  you  know  a  song  called  "The  old  English  gentleman?" 
Tom.— No !  I  do  not ;  I've  heard  it  Counsel— Don't  know  it,  but  has  heard  it,  my  Lud. 
I  suppose,  sir,  if  you  were  asked,  you  could  sing  it  T  Tom. — I'm  not  quite  sure  I  could ; 
I've  a  bad  memory,  unless  I  receive  a  refresher.  A  loud  laugh  went  through  the  court. 

Usher.    Si lence  !     Counsel. — I  see  you're  inclined  to  be  very  witty,  Mr.  Cooke.     Tom. 

—Upon  my  honor,  I'm  not,  I'm  only  telling  the  truth.     (Another  general  laugh).     Usher. 

Si lence !     Counsel. — Now,  Mr.  Cooke,  attend  particularly  to  this  question.    Do  you  or 

do  you  not  believe  that  the  melody  in  dispute  is  an  ancient  melody,  or  a  modern  one? 


THE   FINE    OLD   ENGLISH  GENTLEMAN. 


437 


Tom. — Well,  that,  you  see,  depends  entirely  on  when  it  was  written.  It  might  be  five 
hundred  years  old,  or  it  may  have  been  written  yesterday.  It's  a  mighty  accommodating 
tune,  and  would  do  for  either  period.  Counsel.— It  really  appears  to  me  that  there  is  no 
probability  of  coming  to  any  definite  conclusion,  unless  his  Lordship  and  the  Court  were 
to  hear  it.  We  cannot  ask  you,  Mr.  Cooke,  of  course,  to  sing  it ;  but  if  you  had  an  instru- 
ment, could  you  play  it  ?  Tom.— What!  at  sight?  (A  roar  of  laughter).  Counsel.— -I  don't 
know  what  you  mean  by  at  sight,  sir,  but  if  the  tune  were  put  before  you,  could  you  play 
it?  Tom.— I  think,  if  my  nerve  does  not  fail  me,  I  could.  Counsel.— What  instrument 
can  we  get  you,  sir"?  Tom. — Oh,  anything.  Counsel. — Oh,  anything.  A  Jew's-harp? 
Tom.— No;  it  might  require  a  Jew's  eye  to  read  the  music.  Counsel.  —  Will  a  fiddle 
do,  sir?  Tom. — Yes.  Counsel. — Let  a  fiddle  be  got. 

"  The  fiddle  was  brought  into  court,  and  handed  to  the  witness,  who  tuned  it  and  placed 
the  music  before  him.  A  suppressed  laugh  ran  through  the  court.  Mr.  Cooke  had  just 

produced  the  first  note,  when  the  usher  called  out,  'Si lence ! "'  Tom.  —  What! mustn't 

[  play  it?  Counsel.  —  Yes,  yes ;  go  on,  sir.  Mr.  Cooke  played  it  slowly  and  deliberately 
through.  Judge.  —  Is  that  all  ?  Tom.  —  It  is,  my  Lord.  Judge. — Well,  that  appears  to  be 
very  simple  and  easy.  Tom.  —  (Holding  out  the  bow  and  violin.)  —  It  is.  Will  your  Lord- 
ship try  it  ?  This  sally  was  followed  by  roars  of  laughter.  Counsel.  — Now,  Mr.  Cooke,  as 
you  profess  to  be  a  musician,  will  you  tell  us,  in  the  first  place,  is  that  which  you  have  just 
played,  a  melody  ?  Tom.  —  Well,  I  really  don't  think  it  is.  The  first  part  is  merely  ascend- 
ing the  scale,  and  the  few  bars  afterwards  I  don't  think  really  amount  to  a  melody. 
Counsel.  —  This  is  evading  the  question.  Do  you  know  what  a  melody  is?  Tom. — I'm 
an  Irishman,  and  I  think  I  do.  Counsel.  —  Well,  define  it.  Tom. — Define  what?  Both 
parties  were  now  in  a  passion.  Counsel.  —  Define,  sir,  what  is  a  melody.  Tom.  —  It's  im- 
possible. Counsel.  —  Can  you  decline  a  verb,  sir  ?  Tom.  —  I  think  I  can.  Counsel. — Do, 
then.  Tom.  —  (Seeming  to  think,  and  casting  his  eyes  about  him  with  a  satirical  smile.) 
—  I'm  an  ass,  he's  an  ass,  and  (pointing  to  the  barrister)  you're  an  ass.  (Koars  of 
laughter,  in  which  the  Judge  joined.)  Counsel.  —  Let  that  witness  stand  down. 

tl  All  means  and  witnesses  having  failed  to  stamp  the  song  as  an  original  melody,  the 
decision  was  left  in  the  hands  of  the  jury,  who,  under  all  the  circumstances,  declared  in 
favor  of  Mr.  Purday,  and  he  became  sole  possessor  of  the  '  Old  English  Gentleman.' " 

Quassi  reeititive. 


1.  I'll    sing     you     an      old      bal  -  lad      that   was  made  by       an       old    pate,  Of         a 

2.  His     hall      so      old,    was    hung     a  -  round  with  pikes,  and  guns,  and    bows,  With 


poor   old      Eng  -  lish    pen  -  tie  -  man,  who 
swords,  and  good    old    buck  -lers,  that     had 


had     an      old        eg-  tate; 
stood  'gainst  ma   -   ny    foes ; 


He 
And 


438 


OUR   FAMILIAR    SONGS. 


kept     a     brave    old    man  -  sion     at          a 
there  his     wor  -  ship     sat      in     state,      in 


boun  -  ti    -  fnl      old     rate, 
doub  -  let    aud    trunk-hose, 


With     a 
And 


IkM  «u 

3  —  ;  —  i—  i  —  i  —  i  —  i- 

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M             ~4                        i**                  ^-' 

"p          * 

i 

*                     !         -Hrtrr- 

good   old     por  -  ter       to       re  -  lieve    the 
quaff'd  a       cup       of    good    old    wine,   to 

*    •          9 

old    poor     at       his    gate,        Like        a 
warm  his    good     old  nose,        Like        a 

•    •                                                ?s\ 
up                                              _j_       —  J-6- 

y  "  4  . 

—  i  —  «'  —  u     —  «  —  i  —  —  «  —  ,  — 

^                     V               V               "* 

—  t    *  -r-  •  —  J  —  3    *                     \-k 

p              |  1  r  u'    

P%—  -t- 

—  *  —  

*  i  r*r- 

—  s  E        H= 

When   winter  cold   brought   Christmas   old,   he 

opened  house  to  all, 
And,  though  three  score  and  ten  his  years,  he 

featly  led  the  ball ; 
Nor  was  the  houseless  wanderer  then  driven  from 

the  hall, 
For,  while  he  feasted  all  the  great,  he  ne'er  forgot 

the  small  — 

Like  a  fine  old  English  gentleman, 
all  of  the  olden  time. 


But  time,  though   old,   is   strong  in  flight,   and 
years  roll'd  swiftly  by, 

When  autumn's  falling  leaf  foretold  this  poor  old 
man  must  die ! 

He  laid  him  down  right  tranquilly,  gave  up  life's, 
latest  sigh, 

While  heavy  sadness  fell  around,  and  tears  be- 
dewed each  eye  — 

For  this  good  old   English  gentle- 
man, all  of  the  olden  time. 


OLD   KING    VOLE. 

OLD   KING   COLE. 


439 


IT  seems  to  be  established  that  there  was  an  ancient  king  of  Britain  named  King  Cole, 
and  tradition  places  him  in  the  third  century.  There  was  a  famous  cloth-manufacturer,  of 
Reading,  England,  whose  nickname  of  King  Cole  became  proverbial  through  an  apparently 
popular  story-book  of  the  sixteenth  century,  and  "  Old  Cole "  was  a  standing  nickname 
among  the  dramatists  of  the  Elizabethan  age.  So  it  is  not  to  be  wondered  at  that  the 
name  should  be  celebrated  in  a  ballad.  The  original  song  probably  gave  birth  to  the  idea 
of  "  Johnny  Schmoker  j "  for  there  were  innumerable  stanzas,  with  words  to  imitate  tbe 
instrument  called  for,  and  the  whole  list  was  repeated  at  the  close  of  each  stanza. — 

"  The  harpers  three,  twang-a-twang," 
"  The  armorers  three,  rub-a-dub,"  etc. 

Two  stanzas  of  the  modern  song  run  thus  : 

Old  King  Cole,  though  a  merry  old  soul, 

Nor  read  nor  write  could  he ; 
For  to  read  and  write,  'twere  useless,  quite, 

When  he  kept  a  secretary. 
So  his  mark  for  "  Rex"  was  a  single  "  X  " 

And  his  drink  was  ditto  double ; 
For  he  scorned  the  fetters  of  four-and-twenty  letters, 

And  it  sav'd  him  a  vast  deal  of  trouble. 

For  Old  King  Cole,  etc. 


On  Old  King  Cole's  left  cheek  was  a  mole, 

So  he  called  for  his  secretary ; 
And  he  bade  him  look  in  a  fortune-telling  book, 

And  read  him  his  destiny. 
And  the  secretary  said,  when  his  fate  he  had  read, 

And  cast  his  nativity, 
A  mole  on  the  face  boded  something  would  take  place, 

But  not  what  that  something  might  be. 

For  Old  King  Cole,  etc. 


1.  Old    King  Cole    was  a    mer-ry  old    soul,    And  a      mer-ry  old    soul    was      he, 

2.  Old    King  Cole   tho'   a    mer-ry  old    soul,      Nor       read       nor  write   could   he; 


He 
For  to 


call'd    for  his  pipe,  and  he    call'd    for  his  bowl,  And  he    call'd    f  or  his  fid  -  dlers    three,  And 

read    and    write,   'twere      use  -   less   quite,  When  he  kept      a        sec  -  re  -ta  -    ry.  So  his 


s 


440 


OUR   FAMILIAR 


Egg* 


—  V  -- 

—  — 


ev'  -  ry       fid  -  dler      had   a  fine      fid-die,  And    ev'-ry    fiddler  had  a  fine    fiddle, 


And  a 


mark  for  "  Rex  "  was  a   sin-    gle   "X"  —  And  his  drink  was       dit    -    to    double, 


For  he 


5 


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ve  -ry  find      fid-die  had      he ;      And  a    ve    -     ry  fine 


— ^^2"~~1 

3*3 


fid-  die  had        he, 


For 


5£3|§ 


scorn'd   the     fet-ters  of    four-and-twenty  letters,And  it  sav'd  him  a  vast     deal  of  trouble,  For 


^ ^ — ' S[ — — ^— •  •  —    H~ — ^ 

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*~]  "H 


Old    King  Cole,  was  a       merry  old     soul,  and  a     mer-ry  old    soul    was       he; 


He 


:~1— -p~t^f— P-? 
0         0—0=*         ?-+- 


^— Js 


U5— 


^ * 


call'd  for  his  pipe,  and  he    call'd    for   his  bowl,  And  he    call'd   for  his  fid  -  dlers  three. 


S 


SAINT  PATRICK    WAS  A    GEXTLEMAX. 

SAINT  PATRICK  WAS  A  GENTLEMAN. 


441 


IT  is  contended  by  some,  that  Saint  Patrick  was  not  even  a  man,  let  alone  being  a 
gentleman.  He  is  said  to  be  as  much  a  myth  as  the  bogle  that  points  out  the  gold  by 
moonlight,  or  the  banshee  that  has  frightened  our  young  wits  in  the  story-books.  And  so, 
we  suppose,  he  never  preached  his  sermon,  and  Irishmen  never  learned  how  to  drink 
whiskey,  and  old  Ireland  has  as  many  clusters  of  snakes  as  a  Southern  swamp  in  June. 
Alas,  for  the  sweet  old  faith ! 

The  song  has  not  recorded  its  own  genealogy  as  carefully  as  it  has  that  of  the  saint ; 
but  we  know  that  the  three  stanzas  of  which  it  originally  consisted — the  first,  second,  and 
fifth — were  the  joint  impromptu  production  of  Mr.  HENRY  BENNETT  and  Mr.  TOLEKEN,  of 
Cork.  They  were  written  in  the  winter  of  1814,  to  be  sung  by  the  authors  at  a  masqerade, 
where  they  appeared  as  ballad-singers,  and  sang  alternate  lines.  The  song  became  an 
immediate  favorite,  and,  at  the  request  of  Webbe,  the  comedian,  Toleken  wrote  the  sixth 
stanza.  The  third  and  fourth  are  of  unknown  origin. 


Saint       Pat-rick  was     a     gen  -  tie-men,  and  he    come     of       de  -  cent     peo  -    pie, 

There's  not     a    mile    in    Ireland's  isle,  where  the  dirt  -y       ver-  min    mus  -  ters, 

Nine       hundred  thou-sand  rep- tiles  blue,    he     charm'd  with  sweet    dis-cours   -  es, 

No       won-  der  that  those    I  -  rish  lads   should      be       so      gay     and    frisk   -    y, 


In 

Where- 

And 
For  Saint 


-tea  •    -'*-'•            :  -       —  ••—  :  - 

-   -f\ 

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Dub  -  lin   town     he     built      a   church,  and  he 

e'r       he     put      his     dear    fore  -  foot,  he 

dined    on    them     at       Kil  -   la   -   loe,  in 

Pat  -  rick  taught  them    first    the     joys  of 


put  a'  -  pon't  a  stee  -  pie.  His 

mur-  der'd  them  in  clus  -  ters.  The 

soups  and  sec  -  ond  cours  -  es.  When 

tip      -       pling    the  whis  -    key.    No 


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fa-  ther    was       a      "Wol  -   lo  -  gan,    his         moth  -  er     was       a      Gra  -  dy, 

i" 

toads  went    hop.    the   frogs  went    flop,    slap        dash     in  -    to       the     wa  -  ter,  And  the 

blindworms  crawl-  ing       in      the    grass,  dis    -     gast  -  ed       all       the      na  -  tion,  He 

won  -  der    that      the    saint    him  -  self      to          taste     it    should    be      wil  -  ling,  For  his 


442 


OUli   FAMILIAR    SONGS. 


:=^:. 


aunt    she     was       a      Kiu  -   ni  -  gan,  and  his  wife     the       wid  -  ow     Bra    -     dy.  \ 

snakes  com  -  mit  -  ted       su   -    i  -  cide  to  save  them  -  selves  from  slaugh  -  ter.  I  Then  suc- 

gave  them  a  rise,  which  ope'd  their  eyes  to    a  sense    of  their  sit  -   u    -    a    -    tion.  C 

moth  -  er     kept       a       she  -  ban    shop,  iu  the  town     of         En  -  nis  -   kil    -     len.  ) 


A  *t                                                                                                 ^ 

pr^  —  s  P  —  i 

1  f—                                   -~F' 

—^~~  —      —  R 

(r\  —           b  ^  —  —  ^  S  N  — 

-f  »  J- 

—  d  ^v    If 

^J          *           0           0           Ji^J           m 

t      0        0     II 

gave       the    snakes     and     toads         a       twist,   And 

V        V 
ban-  ish'd  them    for 

-     ev              er. 

T""™            fl 

i1  —  —^  —  ^  —  4  4  —  4  —  (H 

1  r  f  f  f 

s 

fe)»          ^                               -3—                            *       .                                          —  J- 

-—,  =  fr- 

—  f  '  t—H 

1  1  ..                                                  |                                                              |       1 

•0- 

^  ^~ 

u^,'    C  II 

The  Wicklow  hills  are  very  high,  and  so's   the 

hill  of  Howth,  sir, 
But  there's  a  hill  much   higher  still,  ay,  higher 

than  them  both,  sir; 
'Twas  on  the  top  of  this   high   hill    St.    Patrick 

preached  the  sarment, 
He  drove  the  frogs  into  the  bogs,  and  bother'd 


all  the  varment. 


Then  success,  etc. 


Oh !   was    I   but  so  fortunate  as  to  be  back   in 

Munster, 
'  Tis  111  be  bound  that  from  that  ground  I  never  more 

would  once  stir. 
For  there  St,  Patrick  planted  turf,  and  plenty  of 

the  praties, 
With  pigs  galore,  ma  gra,   ma  'store,  and    cab- 


bages —  and  ladies ! 


Then  success,  etc . 


THE  ROAST  BEEF  OF  OLD  ENGLAND. 

THIS  song  first  appeared  in  Walsh's  "  British  Miscellany,"  about  1740.  It  was,  except 
the  first  two  verses,  which  are  Fielding's,  written  and  composed  by  RICHARD  LEVERIDGE, 
one  of  the  most  famous  of  English  singers.  The  country  and  parentage  of  Leveridge  are 
unknown.  About  1726,  be  opened  a  coffee-house  in  London,  which  was  a  popular  resort 
for  the  hail-fellows  of  his  time.  He  had  a  bass  voice  of  wonderful  compass  aud  power, 
and  composed  song  melodies  which  became  immense  favorites.  He  also  composed  opera 
music,  and  published  two  pocket  volumes  of  songs  j  but  his  great  work  is  the  music  in  the 


THE  JtOAST   BEEF   OF    OLD   ENGLAND. 

MS 

play  of  «  Macbeth,"  which  is  almost  universaUy  attributed  to  Lock.  Leveridge's  music  was 
performed  January  25,  1704.  Lock's  music,  which  was  composed  half  a  century  earlier  is 
entirely  different. 

When  Leveridge  was  over  sixty  years  old,  he  thought  his  voice  still  so  good  that  he 
offered  a  wager  of  a  hundred  guineas,  to  sing  a  bass  song  with  any  man  in  England.  He 
sang  in  pantomime  when  over  eighty,  personating  Pluto,  Neptune,  and  other  heathen 
divinities.  His  companions  secured  an  annual  sum  for  his  support  until  his  death,  March 
22,  1758,  at  the  age  of  eighty-eight. 


Allegr 

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1.  Since  might  -y  roast  be 
2.  But    since  we  have  leai 

-A—  j;  ,  1                                  !  
<fa          I            1                 *              I             *i 

:  4-x-    *      [.      U      i  Q  [^#    fv      ^^'  J     | 

3f      is    an      En-glishman's  food,        It  ac  -  counts  for  the  free-  dom  that 
from  ef  -  fern  -  i  -  nate  France         To        eat    their  ra  -  gouts,     as 

,      _-,        J--F  =,  S  *  s  J  a  >  ^^_ 

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runs     in      '. 
well     as 

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gen  -  er  -  ous      liv  -   ing's  the 
fed     up    with    noth  -  ing    but 

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step      to       all    good, 
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m 


the  roast  beef      of    old     Eng  -  land!  And     oh!    the    old     Eng-lish  roast     beef!. 


Our  fathers  of  old  were  robust,  stout,  and  strong, 
And  kept  open  house  with  good  cheer  all  daj'  long, 
Which  made  their  plump  tenants  rejoice  in  this 
song, 

Oh  !  the  roast  beef,  etc. 

When  good  Queen  Elizabeth  sat  on  the  throne, 
Ere  coffee  and  tea  and  such  slipslops  were  known, 
The  world  was  in  terror  if  e'en  she  did  frown. 

Oh  !  the  roast  beef,  etc. 


In  those  days,  if  fleets  did  presume  on  the  main, 
They  seldom  or  never  return'd  back  again ; 
As  witness  the  vaunting  Armada  of  Spain. 

Oh  !  the  roast  beef,  etc. 

Oh,  then  we  had  the  stomachs  to  eat  and  to  fight, 
And  when  wrongs  were  cooking,  to  set  ourselves 

right, 

But  now  we're  a — hum  ! — I  could,  but — good  nightl 
Oh  !  the  roast  beef,  etc. 


444 


OUli    FAM1L1AH    HONGS. 


BUY  A  BROOM. 


THE  ballad  of  "  Buy  a  Broom  "  is  spoken  of  as  Bishop's,  by  Parke,  in  his  "  Musical 
Memoirs."  The  air  is  an  old,  familiar,  German  melody,  called  "  Lieber  Augustin."  Hans 
Christian  Andersen  refers  to  the  old  song  in  his  characteristic  story  of  "  The  Swineherd." 
The  burden  of  the  chorus  was 

"  Ach  du  lieber  Augustin, 
Alles  ist  weg,  weg,  weg  I  " 

"  Ob,  Ihou  dear  Augustiu, 
All  is  gone,  gone,  gone  I " 


& 

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1.  From  Teutchland       I        came    with    my    light  wares    i 
2.      To    brush    a    -    way         in  -  sects    that    sometimes    a 
3.    Ere      win  -  ter     comes       on,     for   sweet  home  soon     < 

9 
111 

n  - 

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la  -  den,      To       dear,   hap  -  py 
noy    you,  You'll    find      it      quite 
part  -  ing,    My        toils    for    your 
•        •                    rt 

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Eng-  land,       in       sum  -  mer's     gay      bloom,      Then            lis    -    ten,      fair       la    -  dy,     and 
han  -    dy,        to        use      night     and       day;         And           what      bet    -  ter        ex   -  er   -  cise, 
fa    -    vor        a    -   gain        I'll        re  -    sume,        And  while  grat  -    i    -    tude's    tear     in       my 

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young  pret  -  ty      maid -en,      Oh!  buy      of      the       wand'ring    Ba    -  va  -  rian      a       broom, 

pray,  can     em  -  ploy    you,  Than  to    sweep  all      vex   -    a  -  tious     in  -    tru  -  ders      a  -    way. 
eye'  -  lid       is      start  -  ing,  Bless  the   time    that      in       Eng  -  land,     I      cried    buy      a       broom. 


Buy  a  broom !  buy  a  broom !  Oh  1  buy  of  the  wand'ring  Ba  -  va  -  rian 
Buy  a  broom!  buy  a  broom!  Than  to  sweep  all  vex  -  a  -  tious  in  -  tru  -  ders 
Buy  a  broom!  buy  a  broom  I  Bless  the  time  that  in  Eng-land,  I  cried  by 


a    broom  I 


a  -  way. 
a   broom  ! 


ROBINSON   CRUSOE. 

JACK  CTTSSANS,  a  singer,  and  a  clever  English  vagabond,  who  lived  in  the  early  part  of 
this  century,  wrote  for  his  own  singing  the  words  of  "  Poor  Robinson  Crusoe."  The  air 
was  taken  from  a  pantomime  called  "  Robinson  Crusoe,  or  Harlequin  Friday,"  which  was 
acted  in  Drury  Lane  Theatre,  in  1781,  and  was  said  to  have  been  devised  by  Sheridan.  It 
was  revived  successfully  at  the  same  theatre,  in  December,  1808. 


ROBINSON  CRUSOE. 


-^—, — ,__-         =t 


1.  When   T      was 

2.  P'raps  you've  read  in 


a        lad,        I      had  cause  to     be         sad,     My    grandfa-ther         I         did 
a       book     Of      a    voy  -  age  that  he  took,  And  how  the   raging  whirl-wind 


fffc  ff    *  . 

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—  ^  —    —  *  p~ 

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S2  — 

lose 
blew 

O  ;         I'll         bet      you        a       can,    You    have  heard    »f      the       man,  —    His 
so,       That  the  ship  with       a         shock       drove  plump   on       a        rock,      Near 

-                       j_              0BBBBBQ.-    .       .         mffraa           . 

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name    it    was    Rob  -  in  -  son    Cru 
drowning  poor   Rob  -  in  -  son    Cru 


soe  ! 
soe  ! 


O  I 
0  1 


Rob  -  in  -  son 
Rob  -  in  -  son 


Cru 
Cru 


soe, 
soe, 


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Ep^E^g 


poor  Rob  -   in  -  son      Cru 
-j" 


soe  I 


Tiuk      a       tink   tang, 


II 


Tink       a      tink      tang; 


O!  poor    Rob    -    in    -    son      Cru 


soe  I 


446 


OUR  FAMILIAR  SONGS. 


Poor  soul !  none  but  he 

Remain'd  on  the  sea  ; 
Ah  !  fate,  fate,  how  could  you  do  so  ! 

Till  ashore  he  was  thrown, 

On  an  island  unknown  ; 
Oh  !  poor  Robinson  Crusoe  ! 

He  wanted  something  to  eat, 

And  he  sought  for  some  meat, 
But  the  cattle  away  from  him  flew  so, 

That,  but  for  his  gun, 

He'd  been  surely  undone ; 
Oh  !  my  poor  Robinson  Crusoe ! 

But  he  sav'd  from  aboard 

An  old  gun  and  a  sword, 
And  another  odd  matter  or  two,  so 

That,  by  dint  of  his  thrift, 

He  manag'd  to  shift; 
Well  done,  Robinson  Crusoe. 

And  he  happen'd  to  save 

From  the  merciless  wave 
A  poor  parrot ;  I  assure  you,  'tis  true !  so 

That  when  he'd  come  home 

From  a  wearisome  roam, 
She'd  cry  out,  "  Poor  Robinson  Crusoe  !  " 


He  got  all  the  wood 

That  ever  he  could, 
And  stuck  it  together  with  glue,  so 

That  he  made  him  a  hut, 

In  which  he  might  put 
The  carcase  of  Robinson  Crusoe. 

He  us'd  to  wear  an  old  cap, 

And  a  coat  with  long  flap, 
With  a  beard  as  long  a  Jew,  so 

That,  by  all  that  is  civil, 

He  look'd  like  a  devil 
More  than  like  Robinson  Crusoe. 

And  then  his  man  Friday, 
Kept  the  house  neat  and  tidy — 

To  be  sure,  'twas  his  business  to  do  so— 
They  liv'd  friendly  together, 
Less  like  servant  than  neighbor, 

Liv'd  Friday  and  Robinson  Crusoe. 

At  last,  an  English  sail 

Came  near  within  hail ; 
Then  he  took  to  his  little  canoe,  so 

That,  on  reaching  the  ship, 

The  captain  gave  him  a  trip 
Back  to  the  country  of  Robinson  Crusoe. 


THE  BOWLD  SOJER   BOY. 

SAMUEL  LOVER,  who  wrote  a  multitude  of  fine  characteristic  Irish  songs,  was  born  in 
Dublin,  Ireland,  in  1797.  Although  not  classically  educated,  he  was  an  eager  reader  of 
good  literature,  and  that  which  he  made  himself  has  wide  renown.  Besides  being  compo- 
ser of  both  words  and  music  of  many  songs,  and  a  novel,  sketch,  and  play  writer,  he  was 
a  portrait  painter  of  such  eminence  that  the  office  of  court  painter  was  tendered  him. 
Illness  in  his  family  forbade  his  acceptance,  and,  oddly  enough,  the  post  declined  by  Lover, 
was  immediately  filled  by  an  artist  named  Hayter.  When  twenty-one  years  old,  at  a  pub- 
lic dinner  given  to  Tom  Moore,  Lover  was  called  on  for  a  song,  and  gave  one  of  his  own, 
which  was  received  with  great  enthusiasm.  In  later  life,  when  the  double  strain  of  pen 
and  pencil  had  seriously  affected  his  eyesight,  the  remembered  success  of  that  time  sug- 
gested the  establishment  of  an  entertainment  called  "  Irish  Evenings,"  which  consisted  of 
mingled  reading,  recitation,  and  singing  of  his  own  compositions.  He  travelled  through 
Great  Britain  and  the  United  States,  and  in  both  countries  met  with  triumphant  success. 
His  genial  nature  rendered  him  a  delightful  guest,  and  his  visit  furnished  new  and  pleasant 
material  for  continued  popularity  at  home.  Lover  died,  July  6,  1868. 


----      —  J- 

1.  Ohlhere's  not  a  thrade  that's  going.Worth  showing,  or  knowing.  Like  that  from  glory  growing,  For  a 
3.  But  when  wo  get  the  route,How  they  pout,  And  thev  shout.While,  to  the  right-a  -  bout  Goes  the 
6.  "Then  come  a-Iong  with  me,  Grama-  chree,  And  you'll  see  How  hap-py  you  will  be  With  your 


-t    I   I 


FT    g  C  C 


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THE   BOWLD    SOJEE   BOY. 


447 


bowld  so -jer  boy!  Where  right  or  left  we  go,  Sure  you  know,  Friend  or  foe,  Wi 
bowld  so  -  jer  boy !  'Tis  then  that  la  -  dies  fair,  In  dos  -  pair  Tear  their  hair,  Bu 
bowld  so -jer  boy  I  "Faith  if  you're  up  to  fun,  With  me  run, 'Twill  be  done  In 


Will 
But  the 
the 


have  the  hand    or      toe,  From  the  bowld  so  -  jer  boy.  2.  There's  not     a  town  we  march  thro',  But 
div'l     a     one  I      care,  Says  the  bowld  so -jer  boy.  4.  For  the  world  is     all     be- fore   us.  Where  the 
snapping    of      a      gun,"  Says  the  bowld  so- jer  boy.  6."  And 'tis  then  that  with-out  scan-dal,     My- 


=F=P= 


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la- dies,  look- ing  arch,  thro' the     win-dow  panes  will  sarch  Thro'  the  ranks  to   find  their  joy,  While 
land- la -dies     a-dore     us,  And  ne'er 'fuse   to  score  us,         But        chalks  us    up  with  joy.  We 
self  will  proud-ly   dan  -  die  The       little  farthing  can-die      Of    our     mu-  tual  flame,  my  joy,  May 


up  the  street,  each  girl  you  meet.  With  looks  so  sly  Will  cry  "My  eye !  oh  I  isn't  he  a  darling,The  bowld  soj'er  boy !" 
taste  her  tap,Wn  tear  her  cap,"Oh  that's  the  chap  forme,"  says  she,"Oh  1  isn't  he  a  darling,The  bowld  sojcr  boy !" 
his  light  shine  As  bright  as  mine,Till  in  the  line  He'll  blaze,  And  raiseThe  glory  of  his  corps.like  a  bowld  sojer  boy !'» 


tt 


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J'-V    V. 


THE  CORK    LEG. 

OF  this  old  air,  we  only  know  that  JONATHAN  BLEWITT  blew  it,  and  a  wild  hurricane 
ne  made  of  it,  too.  He  also  blew  various  other  airs  which  are  much  more  zephyr-like. 
He  received  his  first  inspiration  of  any  air  whatever  in  London,  in  the  year  1782,  and 
breathed  his  last  air  in  1853,  having  been  in  the  mean  while,  for  some  years,  director  of  the 
ftoyal  Theatre  of  Dublin. 
Allegretto. 


1.  I'll     tell     you  a       tale  now  with  -  out   an  -  y      flam.  In  Holland  there  dwelt 

2.  One  day,      he  had  stuff  'd         as      full    as     an      egg,       When  a    poor          re  -    la     - 

3.  A     siir  -  geon,  the  first  in      his          vo  -  cation,  Came  and  made        a        long 


Myn  - 
tion 


•       /* T_^ m  |      ^ 

'iiTT      •«  I  f * < 

K  6       J     1  .j_  r 2—.JIH 


448 


OUR   FAMILIAR    SONGS. 


heer 
came 
ra    -    tion, 


• 

Von  Clam,   Who  "^     ev  - 'ry    morn  -  ing  "  said,        I      am       the         rich  -est  merchant  In 
to       beg,    But  he  kick'd  him  out    without  broaching  a  keg,    And  in    kicking  him  out       he 
He   wanted  a  limb       for  a-nat-o-  mi-zation,  So  he  finished  the  job        by 


-0- 

Z*=p *—j 


V    9 
Rot  -    ter  -  dam.  | 
broke  his  own  leg.    >  Ri         tu,       di       nu,       di       nu,        di        nu.       Ri      tu,  di    ni  nu,        ri 

am  -  pu  -  tat  1011.) 


Said  Mynheer,  when  he'd  done  his  work, 
"By  your  knife  I  lose  one  fork, 
But  on  two  crutches  I  never  will  stalk, 
For  I'll  have  a  beautiful  leg  of  cork." 

An  artist  in  Rotterdam,  'twould  seem, 
Had  made  cork  legs  his  study  and  theme, 
Each  joint  was  as  strong  as  an  iron  beam,   [steam. 
The  works  were  a  compound  of  clockwork  and 

The  leg  was  made,  and  fitted  right, 
Inspection  the  artist  did  invite, 
Its  fine  shape  gave  Mynheer  delight, 
And  he  fixed  it  on  and  screw'd  it  tight. 

He  walk'd  thro'  squares  and  pass'd  each  shop, 
Of  speed  he  went  to  the  utmost  top  ; 
Each  step  he  took  with  a  bound  and  a  hop, 
Till  he  found  his  leg  he  could  not  stop  ! 

Horror  and  fright  were  in  his  face, 

The  neighbors  thought  he  was  running  a  race  ; 

He  clung  to  a  post  to  stay  his  pace, 

The  leg  remorseless  kept  up  the  chase. 


i  He  call'd  to  some  men  with  all  his  might, 
"  Oh  !  stop  this  leg  or  I'm  murder'd  quite !  " 
But  though  they  heard  him  aid  invite, 
He,  in  less  than  a  minute,  was  out  of  sight. 

He  ran  o'er  hill  and  dale  and  plain ; 
To  ease  his  weary  bones,  he  fain 
Did  throw  himself  down, — but  all  in  rain, 
The  leg  got  up  and  was  off  again  ! 

He  walk'd  of  days  and  nights  a  score, 
Of  Europe  he  had  made  the  tour, 
He  died — but  though  he  was  no  more, 
The  leg  walk'd  on  the  same  as  before  ! 

In  Holland  sometimes  he  comes  in  sigh't, 

A  skeleton  on  a  cork  leg  tight. 

No  cash  did  the  artist's  skill  requite, 

He  never  was  paid  —  and  it  sarv'd  him  right. 

My  tale  I've  told  both  plain  and  free, 
Of  the  richest  merchant  that  could  be, 
Who  never  was  buried  —  though  dead,  ye  see. 
And  I've  been  singing  his  L.  E.  G.  elegy. 


CONVIVIAL  SONGS, 


As  o'er  the  glacier's  frozen  sheet 
Breathes  soft  the  Alpine  rose, 
So,  through  life's  desert,  springing  sweety 

The  flower  of  friendship  grows ; 
And  as,  where'er  the  roses  grow, 
Some  rain  or  dew  descends, 
Tis  nature's  law  that  wine  should  flow 
To  wet  the  lips  of  friends. 

—  Oliver  Wendell  Holnwt. 


Old  Time  and  I  the  other  night,  had  a  carouse  together; 
The  wine  was  golden,  warm,  and  bright  —  aye,  just  like  summer  weather. 
Quoth  I,  "  Here's  Christmas  come  again,  and  I  no  farthing  richer; n 
Time  answered,  "Ah!  the  old,  old  strain!  —  I  prithee  pass  the  pitcher. 

"  Why  measure  all  your  good  in  gold !  no  rope  of  sand  is  weaker; 

Tis  hard  to  get,  'tis  hard  to  hold, — come,  lad,  fill  up  your  beaker. 

Has  thou  not  found  true  friends  more  true,  and  loving  ones  more  loving  f " 

I  could  but  say,  "  A  few,  a  fewl  so  keep  the  liquor  moving." 

"  Hast  thou  not  seen  the  prosperous  knave  come  down  a  precious  thumper  f 
His  cheats  disclosed."  "  I  have,  I  have  I "  "  Well,  surely,  that's  a  bumper  I n 
*'  Nay,  hold  awhile,  I've  seen  the  just  find  all  their  hopes  grow  dimmer ; " 
*'  They  will  hold  on,  and  strive,  and  trust,  and  conquer."  "  That's  a  brimmer.** 

**  Tis  not  because  to-day  is  dark,  no  brighter  day's  before  'em : 
There's  rest  for  every  storm-tossed  bark."  "  So  be  it,  pass  the  joram ! 
44  Yet  I  must  own,  I  would  not  mind  to  be  a  little  richer." 
**  Labor  and  wait,  and  you  may  find — "  "  Halloah  I  an  empty  pitcher." 

—  Mark  Lemon, 


This  song  of  mine  is  a  song  of  the  vine, 

To  be  sung  by  glowing  embers 
Of  wayside  inns,  when  the  rain  begins 

To  darken  the  drear  Novembers. 

—Henry  Wadsworth  Longfellow. 


CONVIVIAL  SONGS, 


SPARKLING   AND    BRIGHT. 

CHARLES  FENNO  HOFFMAN,  author  of  "  Sparkling  and  Bright,"  was  born  in  the  city  of 
New  York  in  1806.  When  he  was  eleven  years  old,  he  was  one  day  down  upon  the  Cort- 
landt  Street  pier  watching  a  steamboat  coming  in.  He  sat  with  his  feet  swinging  over 
the  side,  and  one  of  his  legs  was  crushed  by  the  boat ;  yet  he  afterward  became  noted  for 
grace  in  out-door  sports.  Mr.  Hoffman  was  graduated  at  Columbia  College,  studied  and 
practised  law  in  New  York,  and  established  the  Knickerbocker  Magazine,  which  he  edited 
for  a  while.  He  devoted  himself  to  literature  until  about  J850,  when  he  was  attacked  by 
a  mental  disorder  and  became  an  inmate  of  an  insane-hospital.  He  died  in  Harrisburg, 
Penn.,  June  7,  1884.  The  music  with  which  "Sparkling  and  Bright"  has  always  been 
associated  was  composed  for  these  words  by  JAMES  B.  TAYLOB. 


I       1^13^=3 


1.  Sparkling    and  bright   in          H  -  quid    light,  Does  the  wine    our     gob  -  lets  gleam       in,  "With 

2.  Oh  I      if       mirth  might  ar-rest      the    flight     Of       Time    thro'  Life's    do  -  min    -  ions,  We 


hue       as      red       as    the     ro  -   sy      bed,  Which  a       bee  would  choose      to 
here      a-  while    would    now      be-  guile     The         gray-  beard     of         his 


dream       in. 
pin    -      ious, 


f — * * *— 

~^~il~        '  9 1 

-••          •*•          "•*• 


zi;: 


452 


OUR   FAMILIAR    SON9S. 


CHORUS. 
Allero. 


^-^-r=^^^E^=^M 


Then  drink     to  -  night,      with  hearts  as      light,     -     To    loves  as       gay    and    fleet  -    ing,        As 
To    drink     to  -  night,     with  hearts  as      light,         To    loves  as       gay    and    fleet  -    ing,       As 


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bub -bles     thatewim      on    the  beak  -  er's   brim,      And  break  on    the  lips  while  meet  -  ing,  Then 

K                          i  r~  P*  i 

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\       ,       I       J j>>    J l»      I I 

^=^=^=^=1  :Jp==f — j ^izjFF^— zj 


drink    to  -  night,  with    hearts        as    light,         To    loves    as      gay      and    fleet       -    ing,       As 


^i=^:s 


i  i  i      ii'        nn      r**n  __  i     i 


SPAEKLING   AND   BRIGHT. 


453 


:j^z=^===:^==^i==^^g^pj==ij J===r^=pj=z=j=r^=ijz==: 

'^p^~ — ^ — J ;=z^zbtzzr* t=i     -  »— F*      :•=* izzazi— 


bub  -b\es     that  swim      on    the  beak  -  er's   brim,      And   break  on    the  lips   while  meet  -    ing, 

::Jnrz5:z: — *m  i^'mi"1™ — "zr 


?i^r=:£=z=sz= — E=r-£— 

---r — r — r— 


Sparkling  and  bright  in  liquid  light, 

Does  the  wine  our  goblets  gleam  in  ; 
With  hue  as  red  as  the  rosy  bed 

Which  a  bee  would  choose  to  dream  in. 
Then  fill  to-night,  with  hearts  as  light, 

To  loves  as  gay  and  fleeting 
As  bubbles  that  swim  on  the  beaker's  brim, 
And  break  on  the  lips  while  meeting. 

Oh!  if  Mirth  might  arrest  the  flight 
Of  Time  through  Life's  dominions. 

We  here  a  while  would  now  beguile 
The  graybeard  of  his  pinions, 


To  drink  to-night,*with  hearts  as  light, 

To  loves  as  gay  and  fleeting 
As  bubbles  that  swim  on  the  beaker's  brim, 

And  break  on  the  lips  while  meeting. 

But  since  Delight  can't  tempt  the  wight, 

Nor  fond  Regret  delay  him, 
Nor  Love  himself  can  hold  the  elf, 
Nor  sober  Friendship  stay  him 

We'll  drink  to-night,  with  hearts  as  light, 

To  loves  as  gay  and  fleeting 
As  bubbles  that  swim  on  the  beaker's  brim, 
And  break  on  the  lips  while  meeting. 


SMOKING    AWAY. 

"  Smoking  Away  "  written  by  FRANCIS  M.  FINCH,  has  long  been  familiarly  sung  to  the  air 
of  "  Sparkling  and  Bright,"  Mr.  Finch  was  born  at  Ithaca,  N.  Y.,  was  educated  at  Yale, 
and  was  admitted  to  the  bar  at  his  native  town,  where  he  has  ever  since  practised.  He  is 
also  author  of  the  well-known  poem  called  "  Nathan  Hale,"  or  sometimes,  "  Th6  Patriot 
Spy,"  and  of  "  The  Blue  and  the  Gray." 


Floating  away  like  the  fountains'  spray, 
Of  the  snow-white  plume  of  a  maiden, 

The  smoke-wreaths  rise  to  the  starlit  skies 
With  blissful  fragrance  laden. 

Cho —  Then  smoke  away  till  a  golden  ray 

Lights  up  the  dawn  of  the  morrow, 
For  a  cheerful  cigar,  like  a  shield,  will  bar, 
The  blows  of  care  and  sorrow. 

The  leaf  burns  bright,  like  the  gems  of  light, 

That  flash  in  the  braids  of  Beauty, 
It  nerves  each  heart   for  the  hero's  part, 
On  the  battle-plain  of  duty. 

In  the  thoughtful  gloom  of  his  darkened  room, 

Sits  the  child  of  song  and  story, 
But  his  heart  is  light,  for  his  pipe  burns  bright, 

And  his  dreams  are  all  of  glory. 

By  the  blazing  fire  sits  the  gray-haired  sire, 
And  infant-arms  surround  him; 


And  he  smiles  on  all  in  that  quaint  old  hall, 
While  the  smoke-curls  float  around  him. 

In  the  forest  grand  of  our  native  land, 
When  the  savage  conflict's  ended, 

The  "  Pipe  of  Peace  "  brought  a  sweet  release 
From  toil  and  terror  blended. 

The  dark-eyed  train  of  the  maids  of  Spain 
'Neath  their  arbor  shades  trip  lightly, 

And  a  gleaming  cigar,  like  a  new-born  star, 
In  the  clasp  of  their  lips  burns  brightly. 

It  warms  the  soul  like  the  blushing  bowl, 
With  its  rose-red  burden  streaming, 

And  drowns  it  in  bliss,  like  the  first  warm  kiss 
From  the  lips  with  love-buds  teaming. 

Then  smoke  away  till  a  golden  ray 
Lights  up  the  dawn  of  the  morrow, 

For  a  cheerful  cigar,  like  a  shield,  will  bar 
The  blows  of  care  and  sorrow. 


454 


OUR    FAMILIAR    SONGS. 

BEGONE!  DULL  CARE. 


THIS  song  dates  from  the  sixteenth  century,  when  it  was  entitled  "Begone,  Oldi 
The  tune  was  altered  from  "  The  Queen's  Jig."    Its  popularity  dates  from  its  revival  r 
present  form  in  a  pantomime  ballet  called  "  William  Tell,"  performed  in  1792,  at  Sadn 
Wells,  the  oldest  theatre  in  London. 


1.  Be  -  gone!          dull 
2  Too  much 

3.  Be  -  gone!  dull 


care,, 
care.. 


I  pri-tbee  be-  gone  from  me,.. 
Will  make  a  young  man  turn  grey,. 
I'll  none  of  "thy  com  -pa  -  ny;.. 


Be  - 
And 
Be  - 


gone! 

too 

gone! 


dull 
much 


care,  You      and        I        shall  nev  -  er      a    -    gree,. 

care, Will      turn     an    old  man  to        clay  . 

care, Thou      art      no      pair       for       me  .. 


Long 
My 

We'll 


~9 *=>V~?:=f~=: 

lb~  ~0-—. 


time    hast    thou    been     tar  -  rying  here,    And      fain       thouwouldst  me      kill, But    i' 

wife    shall  dance     and        I        will    sing,       So      mer-ri-ly     pass      thj      day, For   I 

hunt     the    wild     boar  through  the     wold,     So      mer-ri-ly     pass      the      day, And 


faith,  dull  care, Thou    nev-ershalt    have       thy        will. 

hold       it      one     of    the      wis  -    est  things     To       drive      dull     care          a    -    way. 
then      at      night,  o'er  a     cheer  -  ful  bowl,    We'll     drive      dull     care          a    -    way. 


COME,  LANDLORD,  FILL  THE  FLOWING  HOWL. 


455 


y  3     JS  is  an  old  English  convivial  song.     Tt  was  formerly  known  as  "  The  Jolly  Fellov/7 
jhe  present  words  are  founded  on  an  old  song  in  FLETCHER'S  play,  "The  Bloody 
jther,  or  Kobert,  Duke  of  Normandy." 

The  first  eight  measures  may  be  sung  as  a  Solo. 


1.  Come,  land  -  lord,    fill      the     flow  -  ing    bowl,     Un  -   til       it       does  run       o    -    ver,  Come, 

2.  He     that  drink  -  eth    strong  beer,     And    goes     to        bed  right    mel  -  low,— Lives 


^f-E-P=E=rf 


£: 


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land -lord,    fill      the     flow-  ing   bowl       Uu     -    til       it      does    run         o    -       ver. 
as       he    ought     to          live,  And       dies      a      heart  -  y  fel     -     low. 


* 


t-t    f  if 

>      P      U_    i i 


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i  -  i 


CHORUS. 


EEE3 


t 


For        to-night  we'll  mer- ry,  mer- ry    be,       For        to-night  we'll    mer  -  ry ,  mer  -  ry     be, 

^•^:^:N  £'     ±   ±     ±:     ?:   ±   ±:   ^:   ± 


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dF«&~^  -  Tr""^ 

OUR 

1    ^      ft 

FAMILIAR   SONGS. 

]foi{     i:     f  *=*-**=*- 

J-  Jr>  J-;  Jr>  1  N  fc  -j  j  1 
•              •—  r  9  *  —                    jj  4—\ 

»»       ft*      .J.       -J-"  ' 

For        to-night  we'll 

mer-ry,  mer-ry     be,  —    To  -  mor  -   row     we'll       get      so   -    ber. 

(ft*  ft   T"JC 

'-£—?- 

g  :  r  •  r  i  ;    *    i    ;  i  j   ^ 

F 

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^  1  — 

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0    " 

^—  f  —  b  ^  5  b  —  ^  *—  H 

^  —  i 

—  i  —  IE 

g  i  ^  r  zi-  j    ^    ug  ^r—  ^~ti 

^                 t                t                 3          T 

—  r  

r—                —to  ,— 

^3  —  »  1— 

•  -—                     4—  -—              —  Tfc^H-      '^—  !      -.   - 

He 

—       I 

—  —                     *           ^^J 

that  drinketh  small  beer, 

He  that  courts  a  pretty  girl, 

And  goes  to  bed  sober,  — 

And  courts  her  for  his  pleasure,  — 

Falls  as  the  leaves  do  fall, 

Is  a  knave  unless  he  marries  her 

That  die  in  dull  October, 

Without  store  or  treasure. 

Come, 

landlord,  etc. 

Come,  landlord,  etc. 

Punch  cures  the  gout, 

So  now  let  us  dance  and  sing, 

The  colic  and  phthisic; 

And  drive  away  all  sorrow,  — 

So  it  is  to  all  men 

For  perhaps  we  may  not 

The  best  of  physic. 

Meet  again  to-morrow. 

Come,  landlord,  etc. 

Come,  landlord,  etc. 

HOW  STANDS  THE  GLASS  AROUND? 

THE  writer  and  composer  of  this  song  are  unknown.  It  appeared  as  a  broadside  in 
1710.  In  1729  it  was  produced  at  a  little  theatre  in  the  Hay  Market,  London,  under  the  title 
"Why,  Soldiers,  why?"  in  "  The  Patron,  or  the  Statesman's  Opera."  Collections  made  in 
1775  have  both  words  and  music,  and  Shield  introduced  the  song  into  "  The  Siege  of  Gib- 
ralter."  It  is  usually  called  "  General  Wolfe's  song,"  and  is  said  to  have  been  sung  by  him 
on  the  eve  of  the  battle  of  Quebec.  There  is  a  story,  which  seems  to  be  authentic,  that  as 
his  night  expedition  against  the  city  was  floating  down  the  St.  Lawrence,  he  repeated 
several  stanzas  from  Gray's  "  Elegy,"  and  remarked  that  he  "  would  rather  have  written 
that  poem  than  take  Quebec  to-morrow."  It  is  not  unlikely  that  this  anecdote,  together 
with  the  fact  that  he  had  sometimes  sung  "  How  stands  the  glass  around  ?  "  was  what  gave 
rise  to  the  story  which  makes  it  his  death-song. 

Harmonized  by  Edward  S.  Cnmmingg. 


n     L       v^urtn.ir.1  IE..                     (                 j                t 

SgEg:  _i^  —  J    J  J--^p-    =*    — 

1.    How  stands     the  glass        a  -  round?          For  shame!    ye  take       no     care,      my  boys;  How 
2.    Why,       sol   -       diers,               why,         Should   we        be   mel   -an-  cho   -    ly,  boys?  Why, 
3.    'Tis         but              in                   vain—           I      mean      not    to          up  -braid     you,  boys—  'Tis 

^^=       ^==j= 

HOW  STANDS    THE    GLASS  AROUND? 


457 


nin 

—  1'    I—  J- 

g_     ...          —  j  . 

—  fj 

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stands        the     glass           a 
sol        -           diers, 
but                    in 

•   round?           Let  mirth       and 
why?        Whose  bus    -       i   • 
vain             For      sol   -    diers 

wine 
ness 
to 

a    -       bound  ! 
'tis  to         die! 
com  -     plain  . 

SOLO. 

•F     h 

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(J  32     r 

<-?  •  •       p  •     J1 

•   'l*  * 

p    r 

r       i*       fs 

—  ^                                        • 

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x-f  —  f  •  f^f  !tLp  — 

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1*    *  "•              &    N*    1 

--t-  1*—-^=$- 

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-\  —  E-=g 

The    trurn     -       pets     sound  :  —       the      col-  ors  they  are       fly-  ing,  boys  —  To  fight,  kill,  or  wound, 
What!  sigh       -       ing?       fie!           Don't  fear;  drink  on;  be       jol  -  ly,  boys  I  'Tis  he,  you,  or       I! 
Should  next             cam-  paign          Send     us     to  Him  who    made  us,  boys,We're  free   from    pain; 

—  —  —  —  rj  =r 

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May 
Cold, 
But, 

J 

b          1        f      "  *  * 

we      still    be        found         Con  -  tent  with  our  hard  fate,  my  boys,  On      the 
hot,     wet,  or         dry,       We're      always  bound  to      fol-low,  boys,And  scorn 
if        we     re    -    main,           A       bot  -  tie  and    a    kind  landlady  Cure      all 

cold  ground  ! 
to        fly! 
a  -    gain! 

..  y  __ 

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5.  il 

FILL  THE   BUMPER   FAIR. 

"FILL  the  Bumper  fair  "is  one  of  TOM  MOORE'S  "Irish  Melodies."    The  old  air  to 
which  the  words  are  set  was  called  "  Bob  and  Joan." 


Delicate, 


1.  Fill     the   bum -per    fair!         Ev  -   'ry  drop  we  sprinkle        O'er      the  brow  of    care, 

2.  Sa  -  ges    can,    they   say,        Grasp  the  lightning's  pinions,        And   bring  down  its  ray, 


J M '. 

A          l 


458 


OUR   FAMILIAR    SONGS. 


Smooths   a  -way       a      wrfn  -  kle.  Wit's        e    -  lee  -  trie  flame,  Ne'er      so    swift  -  ly      pass-es, 
From     the    starr'd  do  -min  -ions;    So        we,      sa  -   gcs,   sit,      And     'mid   bump -ers  bright'ninj 


yt 


/ 

As      when  thro'  the  frame,  It  shoots  from  brimming    glass-es.      r  Would'st  thou  know  what  first 
From     the  heav'n  of      wit,        Draw    down  all       its  lightning.   '  {  chanced  up  -  on        that    day, 

CHORUS.  Fill     the    bum-  per     fairl 


=£: 


*-*— 


Made  our  souls  in -her -it  This,  en-  nobling  thirst  For  wine's  ce  -  les  -  tial  spir  -it?  It) 
When  as  bards  in  -form  us,  Prome  -  theus  stole  a  -  way  The  liv  -  ing  fires  that  warm  us.  ) 
Ev  •  ry  drop  we  sprin-kle  O'er  the  brow  of  care  Smooths  a  -  way  a  wriii  -  kle. 

~N K T— K V 


The  careless  youth  when  up 

To  Glory's  fount  aspiring, 
Took  nor  urn  nor  cup 

To  hide  the  pilfered  fire  in. — 
But,  oh,  his  joy  !  when,  round 

The  halls  of  heaven  spying 
Amongst  the  stars  he  found 

A  bowl  of  Bacchus  lying. 

Cho, — Fill  the  bumper  fair  ! 

Every  drop  we  sprinkle, 
O'er  the  brow  of  care 
Smooths  away  a  wrinkle. 


Some  drops  were  in  the  bowl, 

Remains  of  last  night's  pleasure, 
With  which  the  sparks  of  soul 

Mix'd  their  burning  treasure  ! 
Hence  the  goblet's  shower 

Hath  such  spells  to  win  us  — 
Hence  its  mighty  power 

O'er  that  flame  within  us. 

Cho. — Fill  the  bumper  fair  ! 

Every  drop  we  sprinkle 
O'er  the  brow  of  care 
Smooths  away  a  wrinkle. 


ONE   BUMPER   AT   PARTING. 

ONE   BUMPER  AT  PARTING. 
THIS  song  of  THOMAS  MOOSE'S  is  set  to  the  air  of  "  Moll  Boe  in  the  Morning." 


459 


1.  One  bum   -  per  at      part  -  ingltho'    ma-  ny  Have    cir  -  cled  the  board  since  we  met,      The 

2.  As       on  -  ward  we   jour  -  ney,  how    pleasant    To  pause  and    in  -  hab-  it      a-  while,  Those 

3.  We    saw       how  the    sun    look'd    in      sink-ing,  The     wa-  ters  be  -neath  him  how  bright,  And 


=EJE  E^^EEsEEEB 


full  -  est,  the  sad  -  dest  of  a  -  ny  Re  -  mains  to  be  crown'd  by  us  yet.  The 
few  sun  -  ny  spots,  like  the  present,  That  'mid  the  dull  wild  -  der-  ness  emilel  But 
now  let  our  fare  -  well  of  drinking,  Re  -  sem  -  ble  that  fare  -  well  of  light.  You 


sweetness     that  pleas  -  ure   hath     in       it        In       al  -  ways  so      slow     to     come  forth,    That 

Time,    like      a        pi  -    ti  -    less    mas  -  ter,  Cries  "Onward!"  and  spurs   tho    gay    hours — Ah, 

saw    how     he      fin-  ished,    by    dart-  ing     His  beam  o'er    a      deep     bil  -  low's  brim —    So 


SEE 


JEE3E    E«EE^E 


sel  -  dom,  a  -  las,  till  the  min  -  ute  It  dies,  do  we  know  half  its  worth.  But 
ne  -  ver  doth  Time  tra  -  vel  fast  -  er  Than  when  his  way  lies  a  -  mong  flow'rs.  But 
fill  np,  let's  shine  at  our  part  -ing,  In  full  li  -quid  glo  •  ry,  like  him.  And 


T=£ 


~g~ t(g »i '.  ~t I 


OUB   FAMILIAR    SONGS. 


come —  may  our   life's     hap  -  py     measure      Be      all         of   such    mp  -  ments  made  up ;    They're 
oh!     may  our  life's     hap -py     measure      Of      mo -ments  like    this      be     made  up;    'Twas 


£3 


S 


1 


born      ou      the       bo  -  som       of      Pleasure,  They  die    'midst    the    tears    of       the    cup. 
born      on      the       bo  -  som       of      Pleasure,  It      dies     'mid     the    tears    of       the    cup. 


DRINK  TO  ME  ONLY  WITH  THINE  EYES. 

THIS  song,  from  a  poem  entitled  "  The  Forest,"  by  Ben  Jonson,  the  English 
dramatist  (1574-1637),  is  translated  from  Philostratus,  a  Greek  poet  of  the  second  cen- 
tury. The  air  is  from  MOZART,  and  is  the  same  as  that  to  which  "  County  Guy"  is  sung. 


J^k-fj.  ?__£  B  __^           3 

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QV    o                                • 

j                                                     x                                           v           W 

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i 

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1.  Drink  to    me     on    -    ly 
2.        I    sent  thee  late         a 

with   thine  eyos,  And       I       will  pie 
ro    -  sy  wreath,  Not       so    much  ho 

T    "4"                                                            ^^^^^*         ~l 

a-    'ring    thee,  

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~     m     -i    m    ~     \                "       * 

Or  leave  a     kiss       with  -  in       the     cup,   And        I'll       not   ask 
As    giv  -  ing    it           a       hope   that   there     It       could     not  will 

fc=—  *  —  ,  —  ,  ^_r  ,*      /  J       js       i  :     - 
Svp    -  —  ,  —  J     •        o   ta   •»   •               *:  *  —  ^  —  ^-=^  — 

r        __y—  d 

The 
But 

i  —  *H 

i  -  er'd       be;  

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p=i  J-HM  —  *^^-^-^-3^^:-z^-*^^^ 
(b?-^—  f—  r^f  —  f  \f  -  *~f  --r-T-r-¥-!       :  f-  T^-g-r^ 

•1  — 

g  y- 

^-?    =  (  —         _!>^_ 

--w                                 ^  ^* 

2  -j»-   |     I      E    j-  - 

1  JLJ: 

DRINK  TO  ME  ONLY  WITH  THINE  EYES. 


461 


thirst    that  from    the        soul     doth  rise,    Doth    ask         a     drink       di  -    vine,, 
thou    there-on      did'st     on    -     ly  breathe,  And  sent'st    it      back        to       me,.. 


-*— i — ^ — s- 


gg=£E 
— •—      -+-^— * 


But  might  I      of      Love's   nee   -    tar     sip,        I      would  not  change    for 
Since  when  it  grows,  and      smells,     I     swear,  Not      of        it- self       but       thee. 


IE^S^EE^ZE    =^E  =&E?Ej=^iFl^= 
__*_j_s_, — 0^-1- 0^ — g  -,— i — --  y^ — --* 


FAREWELL!    BUT    WHENEVER   YOU    WELCOME 

THE  HOUR. 

A  SONG  of  THOMAS  MOORE'S,  set  to  the  air  of  "  Moll  Roone." 


— Ji— tia;. ±^— W 


1.  Farewell!— but    whenev  -    er    you  welcome    the  hour   That     a  -  wa  -kens   the    night-songof 

2.  And  still        on    that  eve  -  ning,  when  pleasure  fills  up         To     the     high  -  est  top    spar  -  kle  each 

3.  Let  Fate      do     her  worst,  there  are  rel  -  ics      oif  joy,        Bright    dreams     of    the  past,  which  she 


^^^^^ _J -j  -(  —i          -I      -  j          — |  ^- 

_^_a=^_          ^       ^^^= 
.      j     £-1   ^      ^  >^   ^ 


=at: 


mirth    in   your  bow'r,      Then  think       of     the   friend  who  once      wel  -  com'd   it   too       And  for  - 
heart    and  each  cup,       Wher  -  e'er      my    path    lies,     .be     it       gloom  -  y       or  bright,    My 
can  -  not    de  -  stroy,      Which  come      in     the    night  -time    of       sor  -  row    and  care,      And 


462 


OUR    FAMILIAR    SONGS. 


-    got      his  own    griefs   to    be       hap-py       with    you. 
soul,    hap  -  py  friends,  shall  be    with  you      that     night; 
bring  back  the     fea  -  tures  that   joy  used      to       wear. 


His    griefs   may   re  -  turn,   not    a 
Shall    join       in    your  rev  -  els,  your 
Long,  long      be    my    heart  with  such 


hope    may  re -main      Of      the   few     that  have brighten'd   his      path-  way  of     pain,  But     he 
sports,    and  your  wiles,  And     re  -  turn      to    me   beaming        all        o'er  with  your  smiles,    Too 
mem  -  o  -  ries  fill'd!    Like    the  vase        in  which  ro  -ses     have      once  been  dis  -  till'd — You  may 


tempo. 


y  ^                        -^  —  1  —  1  —  y     -1^ 

—  N                g             m               ''  » 

f=**  p  JV  C             HS- 

fnr                 **"*     js  *    m 

*                1                                                                          *            '^ 

*      J         *         f      *                 9 

ra      *                   *     -          *      * 

W                                                                                                                            ,J 

*                       *—        * 

ne'er    will    for  -  get      the  short  vi  -  sion  that    threw      Its      en  -  chant  -ment   a  -  round  him,  while 
blept,     if       it    tells     me  that,  'mid  the  gay     cheer,     Some            kind  voice  had   murmur'd,  "  I 
break,  you    may  shat  -  ter    the  vase,   if   you       will,     But     the      scent    of     the      ro  -  ses  will 

-^—         '  i-L-t—  i^ 

-9             -i~  3    • 

«  •  «  it  —  ^-  m  

^Y-  a  —  =  —  -5-  •  —  *  *  —  b  "i       **  —  =*  —  •  —  •  —  =1  *»  •  1  1  1  it  —  3  M  ' 

S3  *      #&  if      *-$.*-+-**  •*        *»*»-+     33  3 

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1                                                1                             ""I 

=t 


1 


lin  -  g'ring  with~you. 
wish  he  were  here  1 
hang  round  it  still. 


THE    MEETING. 

THE  MEETING. 


463 


THOMAS  MOORE  wrote  this  song,  and  Byron  mentions  that  Moore's  own  singing  of  it 
at  Hodgson's,  one  evening  brought  tears  to  the  eyes  of  both  singer  and  hearers. 

Arranged  by  Edward  S.  Cummings. 


>y    n                 k  =IK  —  r  —  \~\  —  ~  —  rr~ 

--^-g   ^     .*      ;  —  -v- 

1  .    And    doth   not   a    meet-ing  like     this  make  a-mends         For 
2.  What   soft-en'd  re  -  membran-ces    come  o'er  my  heart,         In 
3.    And    thus,    as   in   mem  -  o  -  ry's     bark  we  shall  glide          To 

all    the  long  years  I've  been 
gaz  -  ing  on  thoso  we've  been 
vis  -   it  the  scenes  of    our 

y^-ft-1-  X^  1  •  ^  jr-  ^T1  J  4  **  j- 
D             ^iiiiiii 

ftX  b      h     =j        a       sj      i       a  ij  a  a  —  ij  a  —  a  —  «  a  — 

M  •  ^  =i  a  1 

V          -J--J-          -«L     -J-         -«••«-         -J. 
1/C-k  K-    P       ^       P>                           ft     1"^     N       i      ^     i   1     \ 

•*-                 -J-      -J-                 -J- 
h  ^  *  =  

^     J       J       '-^    =£=£    '     J      J     J     J    -J      '—  E—  H     =f= 

wan-d'ring      a  -  way.           To      see  thus    a  -  round  me    my  youth's  ear  -   ly  friends,         As 
lost      to       so      long!         The     sor-rows  and   joys,  of  which  once  they  were   part,        Still 
boy  -hood      a-    new;         Tho'    oft    we  may    see,  look-  ing    down   on      the     tide,          The 

~PTb  ;     •     •    •        1  :  i  :  —  —  . 

q  JT'J  

^    f  i    P 

Jf\Pb  r  '  p  [*  —  JB  —  =  —  -f  -  —  -N  —  R  —  ^  —  i  —  i  /  ^7— 

•*•             -J- 
_,  —  0  —  *  —  f  —  — 

smil  -  ing  and  kind    as     in      that     hap  -  py     day?       Tho'     hap 
round  them  like  vis-ions     of      yes  -   ter  -  day  throng.        As        let  - 
wreck    of  full  ma  -  ny      a     hope     shin  -  ing  through  —  Yet       still, 

nu  —-^  .-  j  £_.  p  

-E--  P    ['    y  4- 

•   ly      o'er  some      of     your 
ters   some  hand   hath     in- 
as       in      fan  -  cy,     we 

I 

•  s^\*  1-1      !                  i^^^""^^^                     _i       _i     i 

J 

1  PoL          M*1nJ"lJ          J         *1                    *l*1 

q  M  •}_ 

\  ^•'1?  (^  —                      —  ^  —      —  ^  *  — 



r^-H?     f  -     t     .                   ^  i           .      *      f    :           N..I 

-J- 

brows,     as    o'er   mine,        The   snow  -  fall       of    time    may     be 
-vis    -     i  -  bly  traced,     When  held     to       the  flame,  will    steal 
point       to    the  flow'rs       That   once  made      a      gar  -  den      of 

AK,  i  r^"i—  -T-I^I  1  1  n  i  r"^ 

JJl^^^J 

steal-ing,  —  what  then?  Like 
out    on       the    sight;    So 
all   the       gay    shore,   De- 

fnv'^           *,         *              m     *    \            *       m               mm 
stz                44             0)5'           S8               Sir 

[^/^    7                                                M»M«                                «H*                                H 

__)_       A  J  -j-J 

-^r            *=3F             -^ 

^        i   g. 

464 


OUK    FAMILIAR    SONGS. 


=A=£=£=£==f 
j    *    J    «H-? 


Alps      in  the   sun  -  set,  thus  light- ed    by  wine,    "We'll  wear  the  gay  tinge  of  youth's  roses  a -gain, 
ma  -  ny   a     feel  -  ing,  that  long  snem-d  effaced,   The  warmth  of  a  meeting  like  this  brings  to  light. 
-ceived   for  a     moment,we'll  think  them  still  ours,And  breathe  the  fresh  air  of  life's  morning  once  more 


And  doth  not  a  meeting  like  this  make  amends, 

For  all  the  long  years  I've  been  wandcriug  away, 
To  see  thus  around  me  my  youth's  early  friends, 

As  smiling  and  kind  as  in  that  happy  day? 
Tho'  haply  o'er  some  of  your  brows,  as  o'er  mine, 

The  snow-fall  of  time  may  be  stealing,  what  then? 
Like  Alps  in  the  sunset,  thus  lighted  by  wine, 

"We'll  wear  the  gay  tinge  of  youth's  roses  again. 

What  soften'd  remembrances  come  o'er  my  heart 

In  gazing  on  those  we've  been  lost  to  so  long ! 
The  sorrows  and  joys,  of  which  once  they  were  part, 

Still  round  them  like  visions  of  yesterday  throng. 
As  letters  some  hand  hath  invisibly  traced, 

"When  held  to  the  flame,  will  steal  out  on  the  sight ; 
So  many  a  feeling,  that  long  seemed  effaced, 

The  warmth  of  a  meeting  like  this  brings  to  light. 

And  thus,  as  in  memory's  bark  we  shall  glide 
To  visit  the  scenes  of  our  boyhood  anew; 

Tho'  oft  we  may  see,  looking  down  on  the  tide, 
The  wreck  of  full  many  a  hope  shining  through — 


Yet  still  as  in  fancy  we  point  to  the  flowers 
That  once  made  a  garden  of  all  the  gay  shore, 

Deceived  for  a  moment,  we'll  think  them  8till  ours, 
And  breathe  the  fresh  air  of  life's  morning  once  more. 

So  brief  our  existence,  a  glimpse,  at  the  most, 
Is  all  we  can  have  of  the  few  we  hold  dear. 

And  oft  even  joy  is  unheeded  and  lost, 
For  want  of  some  heart  that  could  echo  it,  near. 

Ah  well  may  we  hope,  when  this  short  life  is  gone, 
To  meet  In  some  world  of  more  permanent  bliss, 

For  a  smile  and  a  grasp  of  the  hand  hastening  on, 

Is  all  we  enjoy  of  each  other  in  this. 

But,  come  —  the  more  rare  such  delights  to  the  heart. 

The  more  we  should  welcome,  and  bless  them  the 

more  — 
They're  ours  when  we  meet — they  are  lost  when  we  part, 

Like  birds  that  bring  summer,  and  fly  when  'tis  o'er. 
Thus  circling  the  cup,  hand  in  hand,  ere  we  drink, 

Let  Sympathy  pledge  us,  thro'  pleasure,  thro'pain, 
That  fast  as  a  feeling  but  touches  one  link, 

Her  magic  shall  send  it  direct  through  the  chain. 


REASONS    FOR    DRINKING. 

CAPTAIN  CHARLES  MORRIS,  author  of  the  following  song,  was  born  in  Dorking,  England, 
in  1739.  He  served  his  country  during  the  American  Revolution,  and  afterwards  entered 
the  Life  Guards.  He  was  a  great  social  favorite  on  account  of  his  ready  wit  and  lively 
songs.  He  wrote  hundreds  of  ditties,  and  professed  to  attempt  the  reform  of  music  gen- 
erally heard  around  the  convivial  board.  In  his  own  language,  he  wrote  "  to  discipline 
anew  the  social  bands  of  convivial  life,  to  blend  the  sympathies  of  fellow-hearts,  and 
wreathe  a  sweeter,  gayer  garland  for  the  brow  of  festivity  from  the  divine  plants  of  con- 
cord, gratitude,  friendship  and  love."  The  author  had  attempted  the  impossible ;  those 
"divine  plants"  flourish  only  under  a  purer  watering.  And  the  author  found  it  so;  for 
Thackeray,  in  his  "  George  the  Fourth,"  speaking  of  Morris,  says :  "  This  delightful  boon 
companion  of  the  prince's  found  'a  reason  fair'  to  forego  filling  and  drinking,  saw  the 
error  of  his  ways,  gave  up  the  bowl  and  chorus,  and  died  retired  and  religious." 


BJEAtiONS   FOB   DRINKING. 


465 


Thomas  Moore  said :  "  Assuredly,  had  Morris  written  much  that  at  all  approached  the 
following  verse  of  his  <  Eeasons  for  Drinking/  few  would  have  equalled  him  either  in  fancy 
or  in  that  lighter  kind  of  pathos  which  comes,  as  in  this  instance,  like  a  few  melancholy 
notes  in  the  middle  of  a  gay  air,  throwing  a  soft  and  passing  shade  over  mirth. "  Captain 
Morris  died  at  Brockhani  Lodge,  Dorking,  in  1838.  He  had  married  the  widow  of  Sir 
William  Stanhope,  and  after  his  death  she  published  four  volumes  of  his  poems. 

The  music  of  his  "  Eeasons  for  Drinking"  was  composed  by  CHAELES  DIBDIN. 


Vivace. 


Arranged  by  Edward  S.  Cummings. 


en    ask'd        by     plod  -  ding   souls,        And 
the    glow      my     bum  -  per    gives,      Life's 


men       of        craft   -     y 
pict  -  ure's       mel   -   low 


II    M 


J 


tongue, What     joy          I    take         in    drain-    ing  bowls,  And        tip-pling   all      night 

made; The      fad   -   ing  light     then  bright  -    ly    lives,    And       soft-  ly    sinks      the 


-*- 


fe£ 


*+*- 


long; 
shade. 


But         tho'  these      cau    -     tious  knaves 
Some  hap     -     pi  -   er         tint  still      ris 


I       scorn,       For 
es       there,      With 


n 


once        I'll  not        dis  -    dain.. 
ev'   -    ry  drop         I        drain,. 


To         tell    them  why       I 
And       that      I  think's      a 


sit         till  morn,     And 
rea   -    son  fair—     To 


466 


OUR  FAMILIAR   SONGS. 


fill        my     glass     a   -   gain,, 
fill        my     glass     a   -  gain,. 


To         tell     them  why         I       sit         till  morn,     And 
And       that       I  think"  s      a       rea  -    son  fair,        To 


fill       my     glass 
fill       my     glass 


a  -  gain, 
a  -  gain, 


And 
To 


fill       my      glass        a   -   gain, 
fill       my      glass        a  -    gain. 


I'm  often  asked  by  plodding  souls 

And  men  of  crafty  tongue, 
What  joy  I  take  in  draining  bowls 

And  tippling  all  night  long. 
But  though  these  cautious  knaves  I  scorn, 

For  once  I'll  not  disdain 
To  tell  them  why  I  sit  till  morn 

And  fill  my  glass  again. 

'Tis  by  the  glow  my  bumper  gives, 

Life's  picture  's  mellow  made  ; 
The  fading  light  then  brightly  lives, 

And  softly  sinks  the  shade. 
Some  happier  tint  still  rises  there, 

With  every  drop  I  drain, 
And  that  I  think  's  a  reason  fair 

To  fill  my  glass  again. 

My  Muse,  too,  when  her  wings  are  dry, 

No  frolic  flights  will  take 
But  round  the  bowl  she'll  dip  and  fly, 

Like  swallows  round  a  lake. 
Then,  if  each  nymph  will  have  her  share, 

Before  she'll  bless  her  swain, 
Why,  that  I  think  's  a  reason  fair 

To  fill  my  glass  again. 


In  life,  I've  rung  all  changes  through, 

Run  ev'ry  pleasure  down, 
'Mid  each  extreme  of  folly,  too, 

And  liv'd  with  half  the  town: 
For  me,  there's  nothing  new  nor  rare, 

Till  wine  deceives  my  brain, 
And  that  I  think  's  a  reason  fair 

To  fill  my  glass  again. 

I  find,  too,  when  I  stint  my  glass, 

And  sit  with  sober  air, 
I'm  pros'd  by  some  dull  reasoning  ass, 

Who  treads  the  path  of  care; 
Or,  harder  still,  am  doomed  to  bear 

•     Some  coxcomb's  fribbling  strain, 
And  that  I'm  sure  's  a  reason  fair 

To  fill  my  glass  again. 

There's  many  a  lad  I  knew  is  dead, 

And  many  a  lass  grown  old, 
And,  as  the  lesson  strikes  my  head, 

My  weary  heart  grows  cold : 
But  wine  awhile  drives  off  despair,— 

Nay,  bids  a  hope  remain ;  — 
Why,  that  I  think  's  a  reason  fair 

To  fill  my  glass  again. 


OH,    THINK  NOT   MY   SPIRITS! 

OH,  THINK   NOT   MY  SPIRITS 


467 


THIS  is  another  of  THOMAS  MOORE'S  songs,  written  for  the  "  Irish  Melodies."  The  name 
of  the  melody  is  "John  O'Reilly  the  active."  Nothing  like  a  collection  of ''convivial" 
songs  suggests  the  real  dreariness  of  all  attempts  to  be  light-hearted  over  the  sparkling 
cup  or  the  crimson  bowl.  This  song  of  Moore's  brings  to  mind  the  description  of  one  who 
saw  him  just  before  his  intellect  began  to  fail.  As  Moore  was  leaving  a  hatter's  store,  he 
turned  eyes  in  which  the  tears  were  brimming  to  the  western  sky  as  he  said :  "  They  are 
all  gone, — every  friend  I  had  in  the  world;  I  am  like  a  stranger  now  in  a  strange  land." 


1.  Oh  !  think  not  my     spir-its     are       al  -  ways  as    light, 

2.  The  thread  of    our    life  would  be    dark,  Heav-en  knows  ! 


And  as    free  from  a      pang  as    they 
If   it    were  not  with  friendship  and 


seem   to  you  now;         Nor  ex   -  pect  that  the    heart-beaming    smile  of   to-night       Will    re- 

love     intertwiu'd;         And  I       care  not  how  soon    I     may      sink  to   repose        When  these 


g^_^_^Z^_j_     _j__^_ 

=R 

/  .  •*                    u  i      * 

j              ' 

f       r          f 

r        f 

-» 

T 

•»  .                «»  . 

—  —  *  r 

^^E=r=-     Q 


turn  with     to-   mor-row     to        bright- en    my    brow.        No;      life        is      a      waste          of 
blessings    shall  cease     to       be       dear     to     my    mind.        But      they    who  have    lov'd        the 


fc=f  —  r*^  —  *  —  -**^— 

-?  —  a2  —  ?—-=*= 

—  9  ,  s1— 

-FT^ 

V"  \/                                                           If  '                                                                    Jl 

n     '  m                 * 

• 

J   .          _l 

f         *         f       r         r 

r 

f~^*      i             i1                 -p 

^ 

^ 

—  i—  _y  —                            a 

h—  j  —  2  1  *— 

-i—     -7- 

__^  2  — 

468 


OUR    FAMILIAR    SONGS. 


"^»  N-! • • •— km 0 r-* fc>3 V — S— , 

^^=p  ii^--^— -L=gd     __^Zp=g^ • — .i.-.iy^:?^ 


wea-   ri  -some  hours     Which    sel  -  dom  the    rose    of     en  -joy  -  ment    a-dorns;        And  the 
fond  -est,  the     pur-est,  Too       of   -   ten  have  wept  o'er  the  dream  they    be  -lieved;     And  the 


f 


>. 


-- 


: 


— *- 


(CN  tf. 

•-*< — g —     ~"^ITZI  — ^i?*" 

f^^— ^x'^'~^^v=-L''       *^" 


heart  that   is      soon  -  est     a    -  wake  to    the    flow'rs 


Is 


al  -  ways    the     first 


heart  that  has    slumber'd    in      friend-ship  se  -    cu  -  rest      Is       hap   -  py       in  -  deed 


to  be 

if  t\vas 


CHORUS. 


touch'd  by  the  thorns.      But    send    round  the    bowl,       and  be     hap-py  a  -  while;  —  May  we 

nev  -  er    deceiv'd.         But    send    round  the    bowl,      while  a        rel  -  ic  of     truth  Is   in 


*Y— N-9--  iF^H*-9 — « 


-•-T- 


3* 


»—»: 


nev-er        meet  worse,  in      our       pil  -  grimage  here, 
man  or  in        wo  -  man,  this       pray'r  shall  be  mine, 


Than  the  tear  that  en  -  joy  -ment  may 
That  the  sunshine   of   love  may  il  - 


OH,    THINK  NOT  MY  SPIRITS! 

lentando. 


469 


$=*- 


espress. 


gild    with      a       smile,        And  the  smile     that    com  -  pas  -  sion     can       turn    to         a       tear. 
-    lu    -  mine    our    youth,       And  the  moon  -  light     of     friendship     con  -   sole    our       de  -  cline. 




J            7 

- 

—  h- 

•» 

—  if  

_  .  —  ..  —  ,  — 

—  *  — 

~T~ 

—  — 

.  -7 

THE  YEAR  THAT'S  AWA. 

JOHN  DTJNLOP,  who  wrote  the  words  of  the  song  that  follows,  was  born  in  the  parish 
of  Old  Monkland,  county  of  Lanark,  Scotland,  in  November,  1755.  He  was  a  merchant  in 
Glasgow,  became  Lord  Provost  of  the  city,  and  later  Collector  of  customs  at  Port  Glasgow. 
He  wrote  several  volumes  of  poetry  which  he  left  in  manuscript,  and  sang  Scottish  airs 
finely.  He  was  a  man  of  eminent  social  qualities  and  amiable  character.  He  died  at  Port 
Glasgow,  in  October,  1820. 

The  title  of  the  air  is  "  'Tis  good  to  be  aff  wi'  the  old  love." 


1.  Here's  to  the  year  that's  a  -  wa'  \ 

2.  Here's  to  the     sol  -dier  who  bled — 

3.  Here's  to  the  friends  we  can  trust 


We'll  drink     it    in  strong  and  in  sma'; 
To  the  sail  -  or  who  brave  -ly  did    fa' ! 
When  the  storms  of  ad  -  ver  -    si  -ty    blaw ! 


And 

Their 

May 


here's    to    ilk      bonnie    young  las    -    sie  we     lo'ed,     While     swift    flew 
fame       is    a    -  live,  tho'  their  spir    -    its  have  fled       On  the    wings  of 
they      live  in      our  gong,and  be  near  -  est  our  hearts,   Nor  de  -  part    like 


the  year  that's  a  - 
the  year  that's  a  - 
the  year  that's  a  • 


470 


OUR   FAMILIAR    SONGS. 


ad  lib.         a  tempo. 


-•-*  — |r— -_-^ p^         _^^- 

>^*       ^T^T 


wa'J 
wa'! 
wa'  ! 


And    here's  to        ilk    bon  -nie    young    las  -  sie      we 
Their  fame    is          a-live,tho'     their    spir-its     have 
May     they    live       in    our  song,  and  be  near-est     our 


>  # 

lo'ed,  While 
fled,  On  the 
hearts,  Nor  de  - 


^=f= 


swift  flew  the  year  that's 
wings  of  the  year  that's 
part  like  the  year  that's 

V 


POLITICAL  SONGS, 


I  knew  a  very  wise  man  that  believed  if  a  man  were 
wermitted  to  make  the  ballads,  he  need  not  care  who 
\  dould  make  the  laws  of  a  nation. 

— Andrew  Fletcher  of  Saltoun. 


**  Come,  gie's  a  sang,''  Montgomery  cried, 
"  And  lay  your  disputes  all  aside  : 
What  signifies  for  folks  to  chide 

For  what's  been  done  before  'em? 
Let  Whig  and  Tory  all  agree 

To  drop  their  whig-mig-mo-rum, 
To  spend  the  night  in  mirth  and  glee, 
And  cheerful  sing,  alang  wi'  me, 

The  reel  of  Tullochgorura." 

—  John  Skinntr. 


POLITICAL  SONGS. 


TIPPECANOE   AND    TYLER    TOO. 

THE  famous  campaign  song  of  "  Tippecanoe  and  Tyler  too"  was  written  by  ALEX- 
ANDER COFFMAIST  Ross.  In  the  Zanesville  Daily  Courier,  of  June  7,  1873,  in  one  of  a 
series  of  articles  on  "  The  Boys  of  1825,"  Judge  Sherwood,  of  Zanesville,  gives  the  follow- 
ing particulars  of  the  origin  of  the  song. 

The  great  political  storm  that  swept  over  the  country  in  1840,  was  one  of  the  most 
remarkable  events  ever  known  in  the  history  of  our  government.  The  Whig  campaign, 
which  carried  Harrison,  the  hero  of  Tippecanoe,  and  Tyler  into  the  presidential  chairs,  began 
as  early  as  February.  Business  generally  was  at  a  stand-still ;  the  currency  was  in  such  a 
confused  state  that  specie  to  pay  postage  was  almost  beyond  reach  ;  banks  had  been  in  a 
state  of  supension  for  a  long  time ;  mechanics  and  laboring  men  were  out  of  employment 
or  working  for  62 £,  75,  or  87 £  cents  a  day,  payable  in  "orders  on  the  store";  market 
money  could  be  obtained  with  difficulty,  and  things  generally  had  reached  so  low  an  ebb 
as  to  make  any  change  seem  desirable.  As  the  Whigs  promised  "  two  dollars  a  day  and 
roast  beef"  to  laborers,  working  men  were  inclined  to  trust  them. 

On  the  22d  of  February,  Columbus  was  filled  with  a  mighty  throng  of  people.  The 
rain  came  down  in  torrents,  the  streets  were  one  vast  sheet  of  mud,  but  the  crowds  paid 
no  heed  to  the  elements.  A  full-rigged  ship  on  wheels,  canoes,  log-cabins,  with  inmates 
feasting  on  corn-pone  and  hard  cider,  miniature  forts,  flags,  banners,  drums  and  fifes,  bands 
of  music,  live  coons,  roosters  crowing,  and  shouting  men  by  the  ten  thousand,  made  a 
scene  of  attraction,  confusion,  and  excitement  such  as  has  never  been  equalled.  Stands 
were  erected,  and  orators  went  to  work;  but  the  staid  party-leaders  failed  to  hit  the  key- 
note. Itinerant  speakers  mounted  store-boxes,  and  blazed  away.  It  was  made  known 
that  the  Cleveland  delegation,  on  their  route  to  the  city,  had  bad  the  wheels  stolen  from 
some  of  their  wagons  by  Loco-focos,  and  were  compelled  to  continue  their  journey  on  foot. 
One  of  these  enforced  foot-passengers  was  something  of  a  poet,  and  wrote  a  song  descrip- 
tive of  "  up  Salt  Kiver,"  and  was  encored  over  and  over  again.  On  the  spur  of  the  moment, 
many  songs  were  written  and  sung,  the  pent-up  enthusiasm  had  found  vent;  but  the 
song  of  the  campaign  had  not  yet  been  written.  On  the  return  of  our  delegation,  a 
Tippecanoe  club  was  formed,  and  a  glee  club  organized,of  whom  Ross  was  one.  The  clu 
meetings  were  opened  and  closed  with  singing  by  the  glee  club.  Billy  McKibbon  wro 
"Amos  peddling  yokes,"  to  be  sung  to  the  tune  of  "Yip,  fal,  lal,"  which  proved  very 


474  °UR   FAMILIAR    SONGS. 

popular ;  he  also  composed  "  Hard  Times,"  and  "  Martin's  Lament."  Those  who  figured  in 
that  day  will  remember  the  chorus : 

"  Oh,  dear!  what  will  become  of  me? 

Oh,  dear!  what  shall  I  do? 
I  am  certainly  doomed  to  be  beaten 
By  the  heroes  of  Tippecanoe." 

This  song  was  well  received,  but  there  seemed  something  lacking.  The  wild  outburst 
of  feeling  demanded  by  the  meetings  had  not  yet  been  provided  for.  Tom  Launder  sug- 
gested to  Ross  that  the  tune  of  "  Little  Pigs  "  would  furnish  a  chorus  just  adapted  for  the 
meetings.  Eoss  seized  upon  the  suggestion,  and  on  the  succeeding  Sunday,  while  he  was 
singing  as  a  member  of  a  church  choir,  his  head  was  full  of  "  Little  Pigs,"  and  efforts  to 
make  a  song  fitting  the  time  and  the  circumstances.  Oblivious  to  all  else  he  had,  before  the 
sermon  was  finished,  blocked  out  the  song  of  "  Tippecanoe  and  Tyler  too."  The  line,  as 
originally  composed  by  him,  of 

"  Van,  Van,  you're  a  nice  little  man," 

did  not  suit  him,  and  when  Saturday  night  came  round  he  was  cudgelling  his  brains  tx> 
amend  it.  He  was  absent  from  the  meeting,  and  was  sent  for.  He  came,  and  informed 
the  glee  club  that  he  had  a  new  song  to  sing,  but  that  there  was  one  line  in  it  he  did  not 
like,  and  that  his  delay  was  occasioned  by  the  desire  to  correct  it. 

"  Let  me  hear  the  line,"  said  Culbertson.    Ross  repeated  it  to  him. 

"Thunder!"  said  he,  "make  it — Van's  a  used-up  man  I" — and  there  and  then  the 
song  was  completed. 

'The  meeting  in  the  Court  House  was  a  monster,  the  old  Senate  Chamber  was  crowded 
full  to  hear  McKibbon's  new  song  "  Martin's  Lament,"  which  was  loudly  applauded  and 
encored.  When  the  first  speech  was  over,  Ross  led  off  with  "  Tippecanoe  and  Tyler  too," 
having  furnished  each  member  of  the  glee  club  with  the  chorus.  That  was  the  song  at 
last.  Cheers,  yells,  and  encores  greeted  it.  The  next  day,  men  and  boys  were  singing  the 
chorus  in  the  street,  in  the  work-shops,  and  at  the  table.  Olcot  White  came  near  to  start- 
ing a  hymn  to  the  tune  in  the  radical  church  on  South  street.  What  the  Marseilles  Hymn 
was  to  Frenchmen,  "Tippecanoe  and  Tyler  too"  was  to  the  Whigs  of  1840. 

In  September,  Mr.  Ross  went  to  New  York  City  to  purchase  goods.  He  attended  a 
meeting  in  Lafayette  Hall.  Prentiss  of  Mississippi,  Tallmadge  of  New  York,  and  Otis  of 
Boston  were  to  speak.  Ross  found  the  hall  full  of  enthusiastic  people,  and  was  compelled 
to  stand  near  the  entrance.  The  speakers  had  not  arrived,  and  several  songs  were  sung  to 
keep  the  crowd  together.  The  stock  of  songs  was  soon  exhausted,  and  the  chairman 
(Charley  Delavan,  I  think)  arose  and  requested  any  one  present  who  could  sing,  to  come 
forward  and  do  so.  Ross  said,  "  If  I  could  get  on  the  stand,  I  would  sing  a  song,"  and 
hardly  had  the  words  out,  before  he  found  himself  passing  rapidly  over  the  heads  of  the 
crowd,  to  be  landed  at  length  on  the  platform.  Questions  of  "  Who  are  you?"  "What's 
your  name?"  came  from  every  hand. 

"I  am  a  Buckeye  from  the  Buckeye  State,"  was  the  answer.  "Three  cheers  for  the 
Buckeye  State !"  cried  out  the  president,  and  they  were  given  with  a  will.  Ross  requested 
the  meeting  to  keep  quiet  until  he  had  sung  three  or  four  verses,  and  it  did.  But  the 
enthusiasm  swelled  up  to  an  uncontrollable  pitch,  and  at  last  the  whole  meeting  joined  in 
the  chorus,  with  a  vim  and  vigor  indescribable.  The  song  was  encored  and  sung  again 
and  again,  but  the  same  verses  were  not  repeated,  as  he  had  many  in  mind,  and  could 
make  them  to  suit  the  occasion.  While  he  was  singing  in  response  to  the  third  encore,, 
the  speakers  Otis  and  Tallmadge  arrived,  and  Ross  improvised : 

"  We'll  now  stop  singing,  for  Tallmadge  is  here,  here,  here, 

And  Otis  too, 

We'll  have  a  speech  from  each  of  them, 
For  Tippecanoe  and  Tyler,  etc.'' 


T1PPECANOE  AND   TYLER  TOO. 


475 


He  took  his  seat  amid  thundering  applause,  and  three  times  three  for  the  buckeye  State 
After  the  meeting  was  over,  the  crowds  in  the  streets,  in  the  saloons,  everywhere,  were 
singing  "  Tippecanoe  and  Tyler  too."  It  traversed  the  Union,  and  was  the  most  popular 
song  of  that  song-singing  campaign. 

Mr.  Ross  was  born  in  Zanesville,  0.,  May  31,  1812,  and  resided  there  all  his  life. 
He  was  early  noted  for  his  interest  in  scientific  inventions,  and  is  said  to  have  produced 
the  first  daguerreotype  ever  taken  in  America.  He  became  a  leading  and  enterprising 
business  man  in  his  native  place,  and  died  there  February  25,  1883. 

u.  AIR. 


i?k#  —  ft  —  fr  ~d  —  jM  K  *— 

f5—  1—  -      1^         |               IS         1 

J  '  '    *= 

1.    Oh!  what   has  caused      this   great   com-  mo-  tion,       -mo-  tion,  -mo-  tion, 

Our      conn  -  try 

-a-:  —  Sf  f  — 

2.             Like    the   working  of    might  -  y     wa  -  ters,        wa-  ters,     wa-  ters, 

fe^M    fi     0  N  f—     —  fv  1  N—  *  1  £  P  h  —  f— 

T^T    U 

On         it     will 

-£-=  1  K- 

^tf  8  r  —  *  —  -M  —  *  —  -•  —  *—  - 

i  Q8.  <  1  ,—  i  —  1  S  1  1  c— 

J         J 

J  0  /_ 

ftjk  tt  J  .  x  C  |  J    J  J  -M  '    £ 

i  —  r   r  C  r  r  —  r 

rrr  r  ^ 

*  ^  V    *    *    I  b- 

•    h^   U    1 

through?  It        is       the  ball    that's  roll  -  ing    on,    For     Tip-  pe-ca-  noe     and 

IX 
Ty-ler  too,  For 

m  1  —  H  -h—        -17-  H  '— 

r  E  i  E  i*  E  r  y 

Frf  r  r  J1 

go  ;     And      in       its  course  will   clear    the  w 

(£)%/    (•  •  ~    0  1  N  —  1  TV  1  h~ 

ay    For     Tip-  pe-ca-  noe    and 

-fv~  -0000        0 

•^    IX     I 
Ty-  ler  too,  For 

'      I*    (•      '  ~ 

^  »      |           ix     -*  *—  J  *--*  *— 

r-v-  C  C  C  i-=fc 

*  a  •  w—    f3  ^ 

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fcl  —  £  —  ^  —  _  —  p  *-~fJ    !±=bz:—  b>_^  —  v  —  |P  —  =  —  «  —  0- 

Tip-pe-   ca-noe       and       Ty  -  ler    too,    And    with  them  we'll  beat  lit  -  tie 

^-*^=*=*=^=  ^h—r  —  "-  -^^^•=^f 

Van,       Van, 

Tip-pe-   ca-noe       and       Ty  -  ler    too,    And    with  them  we'll  beat  lit  -  tie 

fr")3f,.ff  —  a  a  a  a  a  a  9  a  a  —                              »:      j*      j*~ 

-r  ~t  

Van,       Van, 
1    J      **    J      n! 

^H?  r  c  r=c=  T   i  r   r  ^^^^a^fc 
^¥=-  ^^  —  ^=-^^=^  *  *  0  j  t1 

,M  J.  x  II 

B±       *               V--I-*     -^-    •      i_  j  ;  • 

Van,       Van,   oh  !    he's       a   used  -  up    man, 

\f  ftjf       ^  =  —  a  a  -x           —  S0  •  *—  — 

-4—  Hb=^-ix—  — 

And      with  them  we'll  beat  lit  - 
-y^--"—  ^*-f—  y 

-^-i  y>  ~  ii 

tie     Van. 

-  ,  \  f  .  K  n 

fly  *     '     i  '  —  f-  =f-    f!  T       ^ 

Van,       Van,   oh  I    he's       a   used  -  up     man, 

—  P  ^  —  K  —  •«  —  x  —  f- 
And      with  them  we'll  beat  lit  • 

0  •    -$                      f      f 

-f~-f  —  *=« 

tie     Van. 

^=|H^-H 

L^_#  ^  -'                     y  0  0  

-                  [^       ft— 

-fr-r  *.•  1 

476 
See   the 


OUR  FAMILIAR   SONGS. 
tottering,    tottering 


Loco's    standard 

tottering, 
Down  it  must  go, 
And  in  its  place  we'll  rear  the  flag, 

Of  Tippecanoe  and  Tyler  too,  etc. 

The  Bay  State  boys  turned   out  in  thousands, 
thousands,  thousands, 

Not  long  ago, 
And  at  Bunker  Hill,  they  set  their  seals 

For  Tippecanoe  and  Tyler  too,  etc. 

Now  you   hear    the    Vanjacks   talking,   talking, 

talking, 

Things  look  quite  blue, 
For  all  the  world  seems  turning  round 
For  Tippecanoe  and  Tyler  too,  etc. 

Let  them  talk  about  hard  cider,  cider,  cider, 

And  Log  Cabins  too, 
It  will  only  help  to  speed  the  ball, 

For  Tippecanoe  and  Tyler  too,  etc. 


His   latchstring    hangs  outside    the    door,  door, 
door, 

And  is  never  pulled  in, 
For  it  always  was  the  custom  of 

Old  Tippecanoe  and  Tyler  too,  etc. 

He  always  has  his  table  set,  set,  set, 

For  all  honest  and  true, 
To  ask  you  in  to  take  a  bite, 

With  Tippecanoe  and  Tyler  too,  etc. 

See  the  spoilsmen  and  leg  treasurers,  treasurers,, 
treasurers, 

All  in  a  stew, 
For  well  they  know  they  stand  no  chance 

With  Tippecanoe  and  Tyler  too,  etc. 

Little    Matty's   days   are   numbered,    numbered, 
numbered, 

And  out  he  must  go, 
For  in  his  place  we'll  put  the  good 

Old  Tippecanoe  and  Tyler  too, 


JOHN    BROWN'S    BODY. 

I  HAVE  been  able  to  obtain  but  meagre  information  about  the  famous  refrain  which 
became  the  marching  song  of  the  nation.  The  stern,  almost  religious  enthusiasm  of  the 
words  blended  with  the  stirring  tread  of  the  music,  and  suited  *well  the  spirit  in  which 
Patriotism  went  forth  to  meet  its  foes.  The  words,  except  the  first  stanza,  were  written  by 
CHARLES  S.  HALL,  of  Charlestown,  Mass.  Thane  Miller,  of  Cincinnati,  heard  the 
melody  in  a  colored  Presbyterian  church  in  Charleston,  S.  C.,  about  1859,  and  soon  after 
introduced  it  at  a  convention  of  the  Y.  M.  C.  A.  in  Albany  N.  Y.,  with  the  words, 

"  Say,  brothers,  will  you  meet  us?  " 

JAMES  E.  GEEENLEAF,  organist  of  the  Harvard  Church  in  Charlestown,  found  the  music 
in  the  archives  of  that  church,  and  fitted  to  it  the  first  stanza  of  the  present  song.  This 
became  so  great  a  favorite  with  the  Glee  Club  of  the  Boston  Light  Infantry,  in  1861, 
that  they  asked  Mr.  HALL  to  write  additional  stanzas.  The  Pall  Mall  Gazette  of  October 
14,  1865,  said:  "The  street  boys  of  London  have  decided  in  favor  of  'John  Brown's 
Body, '  against  'My  Maryland,'  and  'The  Bonnie  Blue  Flag.'  The  somewhat  lugubrious 
refrain  has  excited  their  admiration  to  a  wonderful  degree,  and  threatens  to  extinguish 
that  hard-worked,  exquisite  effort  of  modern  minstrelsy,  'Slap  Bang.'* 

By  special  permission  of  Messrs.  OLIVER  DITSON  &  Co. 


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1.          John 
2.           The 

-9-b—       ~T- 

Brown's  bo    -    dy      lies          a       mould-  'ring      in 
stars        of       hea  -  ven       are        look  -  ing    kind    - 

the 

ly 

grave, 
down, 

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—  I 

JOHX   BtfOWN'S    BODY. 


John  Brown's  bo  -  dy  lies     a    mould'ring  in    the  grave, 
The     stars    of    hea-ven  are      look-ing  kind-  ly  down, 


John  Brown's  bo  -  dy  lies     a 
The      stars    of    hea-ven  are 


$=    i 


f 


4         4 


mould' ring    in      the  grave, 
look  -  ing  kind  -  ly  down, 


His  soul-. 

On   the      grave. 


is  march  -  ing       on! 
of     old      John  Brown! 


CHORUS. 


5 


5 


Glo    -    ry,   glo-ryhal-le  -    la    -   jah!       Glo - ry, glo - ry, glo - ry  hal  -  le    -    Ju  -  jah! 

-      -  *^ 


He's  gone  to  be  a  soldier  in  the  army  of  the  Lord  . 
He's  gone  to  be  a  soldier  in  the  army  of  the  Lon 
He's  gone  to  be  a  soldier  in  the  army  of  the  Lore 

His  soul  is  marching  on. 
Cho.— Glory,  etc. 


His  soul  is  marching  on. 


His  soul 
,._Glory, 


478 


OUR   FAMILIAR    SONGS. 


The  following  words  were  written  by  HENRY  HOWARD  BROWNELL,  who  died  at  Hartford, 
Conn.,  October  31,  1872,  aged  fifty-two.  Mr.  Brownell  entitled  his  poem,  "Words  that  can 
be  sung  to  the  '  Hallelujah  chorus/"  and  says ,  "  If  people  will  sing  about  Old  John  Brown, 
there  is  no  reason  why  they  shouldn't  have  words  with  a  little  meaning  and  ryhthm  in 
them." 

Old  John  Brown  lies  a-mouldering  in  the  grave, 
Old  John  Brown  lies  slumbering  in  his  grave  — 
But  John  Brown's  soul  is  marching  with  the  brave, 

His  soul  is  marching  on. 
Glory,  glory,  hallelujah ! 
Glory,  glory,  hallelujah ! 
Glory,  glory,  hallelujah ! 

His  soul  is  marching  on. 

He  has  gone  to  be  a  soldier  in  the  Army  of  the  Lord, 
He  is  sworn  as  a  private  in  the  ranks  of  the  Lord  — 
He  shall  stand  at  Armageddon  with  his  brave  old  sword, 

When  Heaven  is  marching  on. 
Glory,  etc. 

For  Heaven  is  marching  on. 

He  shall  file  in  front  where  the  lines  of  battle  form  — 
He  shall  face  to  front  when  the  squares  of  battle  form  — 
Time  with  the  column,  and  charge  with  the  storm, 

Where  men  are  marching  on. 
Glory,  etc. 

True  men  are  marching  on. 

Ah,  foul  tyrants  !  do  ye  hear  him  where  he  comes? 
Ah,  black  traitors!  do  ye  know  him  as  he  comes? 
In  thunder  of  the  cannon  and  roll  of  the  drums, 

As  we  go  marching  on. 
Glory,  etc. 

We  all  are  marching  on. 

Men  may  die,  and  moulder  in  the  dust  — 
Men  may  die,  and  arise  again  from  dust, 
Shoulder  to  shoulder,  in  the  ranks  of  the  Just, 

When  Heaven  is  marching  on. 
Glory,  etc. 

The  Lord  is  marching  on. 


MARYLAND,    MY    MARYLAND. 

JAMES  EYDER  KANDALL,  author  of  the  words  of  "  Maryland,  my  Maryland,"  was  born 
in  Baltimore,  on  New  Year's  day,  1839.  He  was  educated  at  Georgetown  College,  District 
of  Columbia,  and  when  qmte  young  went  to  Louisiana  and  edited  a  newspaper  at  Point 
Coup6e.  From  there  he  went  to  New  Orleans,  where  he  was  engaged  upon  The  Sunday 
Delta,  and  in  April,  1861,  he  wrote  his  song,  "Maryland,  my  Maryland."  At  the  close  of 
the  war  he  became  editor  of  The  Constitutionalist,  published  at  Augusta,  Georgia. 

"Maryland,  my  Maryland,"  first  published  in  Baltimore,  was  set  to  the  fine  German 
Burschenlied  which  begins : 

O  Taunenbaum,  O  Tannenbaum, 
Wie  griin  sind  deine  Blatter  I — 

Longfellow's  translation  of  which,  "  0  hemlock  tree,"  etc.,  is  well  known.     "My  Maryland* 
became  the  finest  battle-song  of  the  Southern  Confederacy  during  the  war. 


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1.  The  des  -pot's  heel  is  on  thy  shore, 
2. Hark!  to  a  wan-d'ring  son's  ap  -  peal, 
3.  Thou  wilt  not  cow  -  er  in  the  dust, 


Ma  -  ry  -  land !   My     Ma   -  ry  -  land !  His 

Ma  -  ry  -  land!    My      Ma  -  ry  -   land!  My 

Ma  -  ry  -  land !    My      Ma  -  ry  -  land !          Thy 


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torch  is       at        thy 
Moth  -er  -  State,     to 
beam-ing  sword    shall 

tern  -  pie      door, 
thee       I      kneel, 
nev  -  er     rust, 

4^L_^  —  r  —  ^_ 

Ma  -   ry  -  land!    My 
Ma  -  ry  -  land!    My 
Ma  -   ry  -  laud!    My 

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venge  the      pat   -    ri  -     ot    -  ic      gore 
life     and   death,    for    woe     and    weal, 
meni-ber     Car-    rol's   sa  -  cred   trust, 


That  fleck'd  the    streets   of      Bal  -  ti  -  more,    And 

Thy    peer  -  less     chiv    -  al    -  ry       re  -  veal,     And 

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gird    thy    beau    -  teous    limbs  with    steel, 
all      thy    slum    -  berers  with    the      just, 

itf-|  =  =3—  H  F=fc= 

Ma  -  ry  -   land!     My         Ma    - 
Ma  -  ry  -   land!     My         Ma    - 
Ma   -  ry  -   land  !     My         Ma    - 

ry  •  land! 
ry  •  land! 
ry  -  land! 

I                r-pl—  —  J  ^ 

**                      "* 

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—  *— 

480 


OUlt    FAMILIAR    SONGS. 


CHORUS. 


1 


sb:3=i 


r 

An 


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d    be      the      bat  -   tie      queen    of      yore,     My      Ma  -   ry  -  land  !     My        Ma  -  ry  -  land  ! 

/TN 


>  -  »  -  ir 


r=j==£ 


cres. 

1 


ff    dim. 

1 


e     rail. 


Come,  'tis  the  red  dawn  of  the  day, 
Come  with  thy  panoplied  array, 


Maryland  ! 
Maryland  ! 


With  Ringgold's  spirit  for  the  fray, 
With  Watson's  blood  at  Monterey, 
With  fearless  Lowe  and  dashing  May, 

Maryland !  My  Maryland  ! 


Dear  Mother !  burst  the  tyrant's  chain, 
Virginia  should  not  call  in  vain, 


Maryland ! 
Maryland ! 


She  meets  her  sisters  on  the  plain ; 
"  Sic  semper,"  'tis  the  proud  refrain 
That  baffles  minions  back  amain, 

Maryland !  My  Maryland  ! 

Come,  for  thy  shield  is  bright  and  strong, 

Maryland ! 

Come,  for  thy  dalliance  does  thee  wrong, 

Maryland ! 

Come  to  thine  own  heroic  throng, 

That  stalks  with  liberty  along, 

And  give  a  new  key  to  thy  song, 

Maryland !  My  Maryland ! 


I  see  the  blush  upon  thy  cheek, 

Maryland ! 
But  thou  wast  ever  bravely  meek, 

Maryland ! 

But  lo  !  there  surges  forth  a  shriek 
From  hill  to  hill,  from  creek  to  creek — 
Potomac  calls  to  Chesapeake, 

Maryland !  My  Maryland ! 

Thou  wilt  not  yield  the  Vandal  toll, 

Maryland ! 
Thou  wilt  not  crook  to  his  control, 

Maryland! 

Better  the  fire  upon  thee  roll, 
Better  the  shot,  the  blade,  the  bowl, 
Than  crucifixion  of  the  soul, 

Maryland  !  My  Maryland ! 

I  hear  the  distant  thunder  hum, 

Maryland ! 
The  Old  Line's  bugle,  fife,  and  drum, 

Maryland ! 

She  is  not  dead,  nor  deaf,  nor  dumb, 
Huzza!  she  spurns  the  Northern  scum! 
She  breathes — she  burns!  she'll  come  !  she'll  comef 
Maryland !  My  Maryland ! 


WAKE    NICODEMUS. 

BOTH  author  and  composer  of  many  well-known  songs  is  HENRY  C.  WORK,  maker  of 
this  one.  "  Grafted  into  the  army,"  "  Kingdom  coming."  and  "  Marching  through  Georgia," 
are  among  the  lyrics  which  patriotism  called  forth  from  him  during  the  civil  war,  while 
"My  Grandfather's  Clock"  is  a  later  production  whose  immense  popularity  is  shown  by 
the  fact  that  a  year  ago  the  royalty  paid  him  on  it  had  reached  four  thousand  dollars. 


WAKE    NICODEMUS 

481 

Mr  Work  was  born  in  Middletown,  Connecticut,  October  1st,  1832     The  fan 
Scottish  origin,  and  the  name  is  thought  to  have  come  from  a  castle-  ^  w    J 

new  alphabet.     Only  the  difficulty  of  obtaining 


rer    h,  n  ,  -  '  oa,  and  on  his 

return  he  invested  his  then  considerable  fortune  in  the  fruit-growing  enterprise  in  Vineland 

veaTsh?le^aifth   rC!al  aDd  d°meStiC  misfortunes  overwhelmed  him,  and  for  several 
aft  all  the  familiar  scenes  and  associations,  after  which  he  returned  to  New  York 
city  where  m  1875  he  connected  himself,  as  composer,  with  Mr.  Cady  of  the  former  firm  of 
Boot  and  Cady,  music  publishers,  who  had  held  the  copyrights  of  all  his  songs,  and  had 
them  with  their  other  property  in  the  great  fire  in  Chicago.    Mr.  Cady  was  reestab- 
ishing  business  in  New  York,  and  brought  out  in  quick  succession  songs  of  Mr.  Work's 
which  have  had  large  sales.     The  song-writer  also  became  a  somewhat  successful  inven-' 
tor,  and  a  patented  knitting-machine,  a  walking  doll,  and  a  rotary  engine  are  among  hia 
achievements.     He  died  in  Hartford,  Conn.,  June  8,  1884. 


1.  Nic    -    o    -      de    -  mus,      the    slave,      was       of  Af 

2.  He      was    known       as          a      proph  -   et—      at  least 

3.  N"ic    -    o    -      de    -  mus,      was    nev    -      er         the  sport 
4. 'Twas     a         long  wea    -  ry      night—    we  were  al 


ri    -  can  birth,      And   was 

was  as    wise—     For     he 

of  the    lash,    Though  the 

-  most  in    fear       That     the 


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bought  for  a     bag    -  ful       of    gold; 

told       of  the    bat    -  tie      to    comes; 

bul    -  let  has    oft    cross'd  his    path; 

fu    -  ture  was  more    than     he   knew; 


He    was    reck  -   on'd    as    part        of  the 

And    we  trem  -  bled  with  dread  when  he 

There  were  none      of     his   mas    -  tera  so 

'Twas     a     long      wea  -  ry   night—  but  the 


ST  £      :          £  —  ^i 

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(31) 


482 


OUR    FAMILIAR    SONGS. 


U  #Lr>                   ~p            ?                   •   .      *    l                    ^          N  !  NT  —  "  —  1 
~jr~  "Q  —                          —  -fr  —  y  —                                                  S  —            —  K  s-(-                             —  •=  

salt        of        the  earth,   But     he    died    years      a  -  go,       ver  -    y      old.                     'Twas  his 
roll'd     up        his  eyes,    And    we    heed  -   ed      the  shake      of       his  thumb.                 Tho'    he 
brave     or         so    rash       As      to    face      such      a    man       in       his  wrath.                  Yet     his 
morn  -  ing        is    near,    And    the  words    of      our  proph  -  et       are  true.                   There  are 
0-&J 

3t«p—  *  .  .  .i  ,  A  ,  LA      

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last  sad  re  -  quest  —  so  we 
clothed  us  with  fear,  yet  the 
great  heart  with  kind  -  ness  was 
signs  in  the  sky  that  the 

*                *  • 

laid            him 
gar       -    ments 
fill'd            to 
dark      -     ness 

1  —  i  '  

a    •  way             In         the 
he     wore           Were        in 
the    brim  —         He           o    - 
is      gone  —     There        are 

J  : 

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trunk     of  an    old       hoi  -  low   tree. 
patch  -  es       at     el    -   bow    and  knee; 

beyedwho  was  born       to     com-mand; 

to    -  kens  in    end    -  less      ar-  ray; 


"Wake  me      up!"    was    his  charge,  "at      the 
And     he       still    wears  the    suit     that      he 

But      he  long'd     for     the  morn  -  ing  which 

While    the  storm  which  had  seem  -  ing  -   ly 


r/n  TI       *          -j               -          f 

_»  —  0  —  0  —  —0  

A                      .                              A                      i 

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•»                    •*•      -r      •*                         ^                       ~t 

^  1  J  n  s  .  — 

p^^-—      i  ^__ 

^~-  1 

—  i  1  •  tn 

*'                        ""S3 

first  break    of    day—  Wake  me  up           for     the  great     ju    -   bi    -    lee  I" 

used  to        of    yore,  As       he  sleeps         in      the   old       hoi  -  low       tree. 

then  was      so   dim  —  For    the  morn  -  ing  which  now       is        at       hand. 

ban  -  ished   the  dawn,  On  -  ly  hast    -    ens     the     ad    -  vent     of        day. 


2- 


WAKE    NICODEMUS. 


CHORUS. 


483 


:* guzfcz^g 


H^ 


-JUt, 
^ 


The    GOOD  TIME  COMING      I,       a]    -  most  here!      It    «as  long,    long,    long       on    the 


?*3P 


3    *    * 


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|  —  JS  K  K—  J$—  9  9       9  S  s  —  -*  -p  P  -, 

way  !                              Now 

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1  *  —  *—  •  0  —  0  —  -J-  —  -^  —  -4  0  0  — 

run  and  tell    E   -  li    -   jah     to  hnr-  ry    up    Pomp,    And 

/^  A  «^  £  r    r  r   &  &  s    /    / 

=&-£—  —  i—  J  —  "-—  '  —  ^r-^~  *  —  5  —  1  —  - 

1 

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C     b  ^ 

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E   ?         -t\    ..      4.  .    "•*.      .  .^          *      ,.*;        ^  •     | 

-^i. 

•  g^                                        .->{-•       ••    •  •  •  —     '  -     • 
.^                                        —  * 

meet  us  at  the  gum-lree  down  in  the  swamp,  To  wake  Nic  -   o-de-    mus     to-day. 


i 


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1 


434  OUB   FAMILIAR   SONG 8. 

WHA'LL  BE   KING  BUT  CHARLIE? 

CAROLINA  OLIPHANT  was  born  in  Gask,  Perthshire,  Scotland,  July  16,  1766.  She  was 
descended  from  an  old  and  noble  family,  of  strong  Jacobite  proclivities,  and  their  third 
daughter  was  named  Carolina,  as  one  more  tribute  of  loyalty  to  •  "  Charlie  over  the 
Water."  She  is  described  as  delicate,  graceful,  accomplished,  the  "  pretty  Miss  Car"  of  the 
school-room,  and  the  "  Flower  of  Strathearn"  in  young  womanhood.  She  began  very  early 
to  write  rhymes  in  secret  for  her  favorite  melodies.  Once,  on  the  fair-ground,  she  ordered 
the  coachman  to  get  for  her  one  of  the  pamphlets  which  she  saw  circulating.  It  was  a 
collection  of  the  coarse  songs  of  the  time ;  and  from  that  day  she  resolved  to  use  her  love 
for  songs  and  her  power  to  make  them,  in  purifying  those  already  in  existence.  She 
re-wrote  one  called  "  The  Ploughman,"  which  was  sung  with  fine  effect  at  a  dinner  given 
by  her  brother  to  the  Gask  tenantry,  and  it  was  rolled  out  by  the  whole  country  side  with 
no  suspicion  that  the  young  Laird's  sister  was  the  author.  She  was  a  favorite  with  high  and 
low,  and  was  exceedingly  gay  and  pleasure-loving.  Her  hand  was  sought  by  many  suitors, 
but  had  been  early  pledged  to  Captaine  NAIRNE,  her  cousin.  The  Jacobite  zeal  of  his 
family  had  stripped  him  of  his  estates,  and  he  was  obliged  to  wait  for  promotion  before  his 
income  allowed  them  to  marry.  When  he  was  almost  fifty,  and  she  was  forty-one,  Captain 
Nairne  became  a  Major,  and  they  were  married  and  removed  to  Carolina  cottage  in  Edin- 
burgh, where  they  spent  twenty-four  happy  years,  in  the  course  of  which  Major  Nairne  \vas 
restored  to  his  rank  in  the  peerage.  The  idol  of  their  home  was  an  only  son.  Long  befory 
her  marriage,  Lady  Nairne  had  become  deeply  and  joyously  religious,  and  much  of  her 
income  was  spent  in  charity.  After  the  death  of  her  husband,  she  writes : 


"  His  staff's  at  the  wa% 
Toom,  toom  is  his  chair! 


His  barmet  an'  a'  Qh  j  to  meet  him 

An'  1  maun  be  here!  Where  heartg  ne,er  were 


But  oh !  he's  at  rest, 
Why  s'ud  I  complain? 


'Gin  my  soul  be  blest, 
I'll  meet  him  again, 


Oh !  to  meet  him  again, 
To  part  never  mair ! 


Mr.  Purdie,  a  bookseller  of  Edinburgh,  planned  a  collection  of  the  best  songs  of  Scot- 
land, and  engaged  R.  A.  Smith  to  edit  them.  A  lady  friend  who  knew  of  Lady  Nairne's 
writings,  begged  her  to  contribute,  and  she  promised  to  do  so  under  a  pledge  of  strict 
secrecy.  Her  contributions  were  signed  "  B.  B.,"  and  the  friend  whispered  in  Mr.  Purdie's 
ear  that  the  author  was  "  Mrs.  Bogan  of  Bogan."  The  numerous  issues  of  the  collection 
ran  through  three  years,  and  dressed  in  a  well-designed  disguise,  Lady  Nairne  had  many 
talks  with  Mr.  Purdie.  As  one  reason  for  wishing  concealment,  she  writes :  "  I  beg  the 
publisher  will  make  no  mention  of  a  lady ;  as  you  observe,  the  more  mystery  the  better, 
and  still  the  balance  is  in  favor  of  the  lords  of  creation.  I  cannot  help  in  some  degree 
undervaluing  beforehand  what  is  said  to  be  a  feminine  production."  After  the  death  of  her 
husband,  Lady  Nairne  travelled  in  search  of  health  for  her  delicate  son,  who,  however,  died 
at  the  age  of  twenty-one.  She  spent  several  years  abroad,  and  returned  to  her  old  home 
at  Gask  but  two  years  before  her  death,  which  took  place  there,  October  26, 1845.  During 
her  later  years  she  wrote  some  of  her  sweetest  lyrics.  The  one  which  begins : 

Would  you  be  young  again  f 

So  would  not  I  — 
One  tear  to  memory  given, 

Onward  I  hie. 

Life's  dark  flood  forded  o'er, 
All  but  at  rest  on  shore, 
Say,  would  you  plunpre  once  more, 

Withhomr-  *••  nieh? 


WHA'LL    BE  KING  BUT  CHASLIEf  435 

was  written  in  her  seventy-sixth  year.    Another  closes  with  these  lines : 

Where  souls  angelic  soar, 

Thither  repair; 
Let  this  vain  world  no  more 

Lull  and  ensnare. 
That  heaven  I  love  so  well 
Still  in  my  heart  shall  dwell ; 
All  things  around  me  tell 

Rest  is  found  there. 

The  air  of  "  Wha'll  be  king  but  Charlie  ? "  is  found  in  an  old  collection  called  "Airs  and 
melodies  peculiar  to  the  Highlands." 


rjM>     fi            |_J_-Jr-j  —  -T-m  F—  5  r-J  -*—  J  p^  —^ 

o'    mue    news  frae  Moi  -  dart    cam'   yes-treen,  Will    soon    gar    mo  -  ny      fer       -       lie;  For 
2.    The   High-  land  clans    wi'  sword    in  hand,  Frae  John     o'  Groat's  to      Air       -       lie,    Hae 
6.     Ine   Low-  lands    a'     baith  great  and  sma',  Wi'      mo-  ny  a  lord    and    laird,            hae    De- 

fk-J  —  M  —  iv  —  *  —  J  —  4  —  *  —  f           f-      0      •            •"  —  *  —  *""=  — 

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ships        o'     war       hae    just     come     in,       And  land  -    ed        Roy  -   al     Char  -   lie  !  ) 
to           a      man        de  -  clared      to     stand,       Or      fall        wi'        Roy  -   al     Char  -   lie  I  >  Come 
clared      for    Scot  -  land's  king      and    law,       An'  spier       ye,        wha    but  Char   •   lie?  J 

My  .  =H«=?-=H    -f  —  F  —  M 

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^;^T  —  '»  '*  —  •  —       »     -•    H*  —  •  —    ~*~ 

^  r   \  r     c'r   c  r  -T'r   t  r    g'^^^^ 

y^r    ^£=J=  ^   f  '   c  ~*   ^Qj'l^-^-J  ^ 

round   him   cling      wi'       a'        your    kin,     For  wha'll       be       king   but    Char    -    lie?    Come 

/te6  f    f   '  i^TT~  r    V"   r  1  J  —  *  —  *"—  '  '  '  —  ^ 

pEEpSje 

^)*  (7-  •  »-  p-  p  5  »  »  1  — 

:  •  —  0-^—^-0^^- 

!s«4>  —  ,  L  p.  u  »  ,»_         _  x_ 
1        U      1        V      ~       b 

—  ^*^W^ 

486 


OUR    FAMILIAR    SONGS. 


s 


through  the  heath-er,      a  -  round    him  gath-  er,  Come  Ronald,  come  Donald,  come   a'      thegith-er,And 


IP 


m 


Ut^-f  -g—  ^^ 

=p 

&-^=^ 

_^ 

-1  

H_  

i- 

sp  F  —  1  —  i  J 

crown    your  right  -   fu', 

f)       L,                                                                               C 

k         |            K 
law   -   fu'     king;     For 

1^ 

wha'll      bti         kinj 

\  but 

Cl 

iar    -      li< 

'            II 

3? 

jfefi                                                        « 

f                 m                                 m 

fs           P^l 

^  — 

| 

X  h       «        i*      r        y 

r         P          r 

J           1 

frfs"        »         r         -         * 

1            L        r           L 

mm 

1 

HZ                        U         ' 

V        \            V 

1 

tr~ 
p       i*      i*       i* 

0                0             m                m 

0 

P 

^^ 

/i^«  n       i            r         i            ' 

t            \          »          m 

r        i*       (• 

»  • 

'            n 

€^—  >  —  i  —  r  —  r- 

-+  E 

4  —  £  —  F- 

F—  f- 

—  H 

There's  ne'er  a  lass  in  a'  the  land 
But  vows  baith  late  and  early, 

To  man  she'll  ne'er  gie  heart  or  hand 
Who  wadna  fight  for  Charlie. 

Come  through,  etc. 


Then  here's  a  health  to  Charlie's  cause, 
And  be't  complete  and  early; 

His  very  name  my  heart's  blood  warms  - 
To  arms  for  Royal  Charlie  ! 
Come  through,  etc. 


CHARLIE  IS  MY  DARLING. 

SETEBAL  Scottish  poets  have  rung  the  changes  upon  both  the  air  and  words  of 
"  Charlie  is  my  darling."  Burns  has  a  version,  Hogg  a  version,  Captain  Charles  Grey  a 
version,  and  there  are  still  others  of  less  celebrity.  But  the  words  most  in  use  were  writ- 
ten by  the  BARONESS  NAIRNE,  although  her  authorship  was  not  then  known,  and  stanzas 
from  the  other  versions  were  generally  mingled  with  hers.  I  give  her  version  entire. 
The  song  is,  of  course,  a  Jacobite  effusion,  and  Lady  Nairne's  family  were  Jacobites  of  the 
Jacobites,  nearly  all  the  kith  and  kin  having  been  in  trouble  or  exile  on  that  account.  A 
lock  of  Prince  Charlie's  hair,  his  bonnet,  spurs,  cockades,  and  crucifix,  were  cherished 
relics  among  them.  The  "  Auld  Laird,"  Lady  Nairne's  father,  refused  to  acknowledge  King 
George,  and  dismissed  the  family  chaplain  for  taking  the  oath  of  fealty  to  him  after  the 
death  of  Charles  Edward.  The  King  who  had  graciously  allowed  him  to  return  and  spend 
his  age  in  his  old  homo,  sent  this  message  to  his  obstinate  subject :  "  The  Elector  of 
Hanover's  compliments  to  the  Laird  of  Gask,  and  wishes  to  tell  him  how  much  the  Elector 
respects  the  Laird  for  the  steadiness  of  his  principles." 

In  his  "  Forty  Years'  Recollections,"  Charles  Mackay,  the  song-writer,  relates  the 
followng  anecdote  of  his  childhood:  "Grace  Threlkeld,  or  as  her  husband  always 
called  her,  <  Girzie,'  taught  me  the  alphabet,  together  with  the  tunes  of  many  scores — 
I  may  say  hundreds — of  Scotch  songs  which  she  was  fond  of  singing.  Among  the 
rest  was  the  old  Jacobite  song  of  "Charlie  is  my  darling,  the  young  Chevalier."  I 
imagined  at  the  time  that  this  was  a  song  about  myself,  and  that  I  was  the  veritable 
young  Chevalier.  I  well  remember  my  astonishment,  when  I  was  about  six  years  old, 
at  hearing  a  blackbird,  whose  cage  hung  from  a  window  in  Powis  Street,  Woolwich, 


CHARLIE  IS  MY  DARLING. 


487 


pipe  this  tune  very  correctly  as  I  passed  along  with  u  playmate.  I  looked  at  the 
bird  with  infantine  bewilderment,  thinking  that  the  creature  was,  as  the  Scotch  say, '  no 
Connie/  and  that  the  foul  fiend  himself  had  taken  up  his  abode  in  his  tiny  throat.  The 
good  Girzie  laughed  at  my  terror,  but  it  was  many  weeks  before  I  was  quite  reconciled 
to  the  possession  of  musical  abilities  by  so  small  a  creature,  or  quite  satisfied  that  it  had 
not  formed  a  deliberate  purpose  by  whistling  that  particular  song,  to  turn  me  into  ridicule." 


=y       PI 


1.    Oh !    Char-  lie  is     my  dar  -  ling,  My     dar-  ling, 


i 


Char-lie   is    my  dar-  ling,  The 


^m 


P* 


1 


ti    i 


s 


£ 


p-   • 


£± 


— v — 1< — ^ 


young  Che-va-lier. 


fl.  'Twa 

.  ^  2.      As 
(3.    Wi' 


Twas    on     a    Mon- day     morn  -  ing,  Right  ear-ly    in   the   year,      When 
he  cam'  march-in'    up  the  street, The  pipes  play 'd  loud  and  clear ;   And 
Hie-land  bon  -  nets  on  their  heads,  And  claymores  bright  and  clear,  They 
k 


Char  -  lie  came  to    our   town.   The        voung  Chev-a-lier.   ] 

a'   the  folk  cam'  rinnin'  out     To      meet  the  Chev-  a  -  Her.   \ 

cam'  to  fight  for  Scotland's  right  ,And  the  young  Chev  -  a  -  Her.  J 


Oh !     Char-lie   is     my  dar  -  ling,  my 


^ 


They've  left  their  bonnie  Hieland  hills, 
Their  wives  and  bairnies  dear, 

To  draw  the  sword  for  Scotland's  lord, 
The  young  Chevalier. 

Oh !  Charlie,  etc. 


Oh  !  there  were  mony  beating  hearts, 
And  mony  a  hope  and  fear ; 

And  mony  were  the  prayers  put  up 
For  the  young  Chevalier. 

Oh  !  Charlie,  etc. 


488 


OUK    FAMILIAR    SONGS. 

WHAT'S  A'   THE   STEER,    KIMMER? 


THE  origin  of  this  Jacobite  song  is  unknown.  It  appeared  about  1745,  and  was  first 
made  familiar  to  Amercan  ears  in  the  Scottish  concerts  of  the  Misses  Gumming,  about  1850. 
Of  course  the  first  line,  divested  of  its  dialect  form,  would  read :  "  What's  all  the  stir, 
comer  "  (stranger)  ? 

Allegro. 


bfc*p  —  T>_|_L-i_^     fc   |       j»  0f    foi    \         ^     £_:}           i  ^  \Lf  '^iz 

*  »  1 

1.      "What's    a'    the  steer,  kimmer,    What's     a'    the  steer?  "        Charlie   he     is    land-   ed,  And 
2.  I'm  right  glad  to  hear't,  kimmer  ,I'm  right  glad  tohear't;!       hae      a  guile  braid  claymore,  And 

*••<«.           •*.*.                 *-         +.           *.+.*.           +. 

-t^r 
£=£—=, 

rj;ff^w  —  B  0— 

P  —  —  *.  —  .  — 

•     -1  —  —  I-                  •           r--               f-              •-         .    l  .       -j-    .-                    (H 

1  

WT***^*                                                                                                   I 

?*     ^  ] 

f                                         \J              t                    £                                             *l              &                        ith. 

-^-^- 

R^                  i/                  i  i           *                                  0           i         \         -^         0 

faith    he'll    soon      be      here;                   The        win'      was       at         his      back, 
for        his     sake      I'll    wear't;                  Sin'       Char  -    lie,      he         is         land    - 

Carle,  The 
ed,       We 

•ft.                           JL                              *.                   +.                               JL                             *                                 JL 

^g     ^               "fe  :                                        —  -  J«  —         —  P 

-£      q 

>L!i  —  i  1  *  f  1  1  i  

_j  —  =q 

win'  was  at      his  back, 
ha'e    naemair  to  fear, 


I       care  -  na,  sin'    he's  come.  Carle,  We    were  na  worth      a  plack. 
Sin      Char  -lie  he       is  come,  kimmer,  We'll  ha'e   a      jub  -  'lee  year. 


f        t 


WEARING  OF  THE  GREEN. 

OF  the  many  songs  which  have  been  written  with  this  title  and  sentiment,  this  one  by 
DION  BOUCICAULT  is  best  known  in  this  country.  It  is  the  song  of  "  Shaun  the  Post,"  in 
the  play  of  "  Arrah  na  Pogue."  There  was  an  old  revolutionary  street  ballad  in  Ireland, 
in  which  a  conversation  was  imagined  between  Bonaparte  and  an  Irishman.  Bonaparte 
inquires, 

And  how  is  ould  Ireland,  and  how  does  she  stand? 

and  the  reply  is, 

"Tis  a  poor  distressed  coun-the-ry,  oh.  poor  I-ar-land ! 


THE  WEARING  OF  THE  GREEN. 


489 


=:£=^Fi£z= 
~9 — *-lr»-— *_ 

1 'u 


N 


-T  --  S 


1 


0— 


1.  Oil !    Pad  -  dy,    dear,  and      did     you    hear     the       news  that's    go    -  in'    round,  The 

2.  Then  since   the      col  -   or      we    must  wear,      is        Eng  -  laud's  cru   -  el       red,  Sure 

3.  But     if        at      last     our     col  -   or    should     be       torn  from      Ire  -  land's  heart,  Her 


-:  -2- 

- 


\ 


*— 


Sham  -rock       is        for    -   bid      by       law      to       grow    on         I    -    rish    ground ;        Saint 
Ire  -  land's     sons     will      ne'er   for    -  get,    the      blood  that      they     have     shed;       You   may 
sons     with    shame   and       sor  -  row    from     the      dear     old       soil       will     part";        I've  heard 


1  1  1  

^-Tj 

*/ 

• 

1 

ixtj  — 

*— 

—  P- 

2 

.] 

—  *  *-  — 

«/ 

Pat- 
take 
whis  - 

rick's   day 
the      Sham  - 
per        of 

no 
rock 
a 

—  i  — 

more  we'll 
from  your 
coun  -  try 

^^^ 

—  i  — 

keep, 
hat, 
that 

'  _j 

His 

and 
lies 

col  - 
cast 
far 

or 
it 
be 

—  i- 

—  0  — 

can't 
on 
-  yant 

be    seen, 
the     sod, 
the     say, 

For 
But 
Where 

&  >Z__«j  e  f.  i.  — 

—  4  —M  — 

—  *  0  —             ~i~~ 

: 

••  -T   •  •  'r    " 

4    =1 

a 

i  —  i  — 

i   —  | 

=1  l-  —  = 

—  1  
~*\— 

—  i-=j 

nfc 


there's    a       blood  -y       law        a    -    gin'       the    Wear  -in'        o'       the      Green;         I  ---- 
'twill    take     root      and    flour-   ish      still,      tho'      un  -  der    -foot      'tis       trod;       When  the 


rich      and     poor     stand    e    -    qual,       in       the     light     of       free  -dom's    day; 


Oh, 


^ 


490 


OUR  FAMILIAR  SONGS. 


I 


s 


met     with     Nap  -    per      Tan    -  dy       and       he         tuk      me      by      the        hand,        And    he 
law       can      stop       the      blades    of       grass    from    grow-  ing     as      they      grow,  And 

E    -    rin     must       we       lave      you,     driv  -    en        by       the      ty  -  rant's   hand,        Must    we 


—  •  —        —  r^^ 

—  -<                     •                   H                 -^                         1  1                         

—*  j  —  j_ 

-1—  *—  v—  '-  —  i  h-d— 
•*•-*•-*•      ;••  "•" 

z  k  —  i  

l_y_  .  —  0  —  0  —  _  —  _£_ 

0   .,  0  i*  —  f- 

said    "  how's  poor    ould 
when    the      leaves     in 
ask        a.      moth  -    el's 

Ire    -  land,                and 
sum  -  mer     tune      their 
wel  -    come   from       a 

^         \,                   *          -*• 
how              does       she       stand?" 
ver    -  dure    dare       not         show; 
strange    but      hap  -     py          land? 

w  f     —  —  ^J 

—  1  d  1 

~J2.  1  *  LI 

P> 

E3  1  

^  

• 

=H 

JL  k    1 

-K 

P    -45  =  E  TU-A 

<m£.  Li  

__  ^  ^  ^  ^  ^  p.  ,  "-|~*~ 

-     r 

—  «  0  *  «— 

i/-11  ir=^  —  •  •  v  *  •  
She's  the  most  dis  -  tress  -  ful    coun  -  try,              that    ev 
Then      I     will  change  the      col  -    or                   I    wear 
Where  the  cm  -   el     cross    of      Eng  -  land's  thral  -dom  nev 

-  er       you     have  seen;            They're 
in        my     cau  -  been,               But 
-  er       shall    be      seen,              And 

1  ~  i  1  s  *  

\                  "* 

*-*'*r-  *r~  *r 

+  •+••*•    •*•    -*• 

—  '-}-*  —  «  —  -  -•- 

•*•    -J-    •*•           -••-»• 

-#•-£•     -£-S-             -*• 

• 

'  —  *-hpi  *  *- 

Jj—  ;  =£^ 

=f  —  J  -3~l  -1        ?     *|    i 

Repeat  as  Chorus. 

t          k.          ».                             II 

JUp  —  p_ 

*                             v 

£  ^  s          H4 

—  h  ^  ~  — 

^        ^i                  J          * 

090                 0                        II 

hang  -  ing     men       and 
'till       that      day,    please 
where,  thank  God,    we'll 

wo    -  men     there     for       wear 
God,     I'll        stick       to        wear 
live       and       die,      still        wear 

H-  —  i-    _j  i  r 

-    ing       of       the       green. 
-    ing       of       the       green. 
-    ing       of       the       green. 

—  -i  j  —  -i  1  ^H 

Pj 

-i-      =F= 

•»• 

-4  —  ^  —  fe—  *  41 
$    ^    s     ^ 

3 

m  4  fL  *          ~t_ 

p  _+  —  4  J  U 

YES!     THE   DIE  IS    CAST. 

YES!    THE   DIE   IS  CAST. 


491 


PAUL  PESTEL  was  born  in  1794.    He  was  of  German  descent,  and  was  Colonel  com- 

manding  a  Russian  regiment  of  infantry.    He  allied  himself  with  a  secret  society  which 

for  its  object  the  overthrow  of  the  empire,  and  soon  became  its  most  zealous 

EBs  schemes  were  discovered  and  reported  to  the  Emperor  Nicholas,  and 

1  was  immediately  chained  in  a  dungeon,  where  he  remained  until  his  execution, 

July  11,  1826.    There  seems  to  be  no  reason  for  disbelieving  the  statement  that  shortly 

ore  his  death,  he  composed,  and  with  a  link  of  his  chain  rudely  carved  upon  his 

dungeon  wall,  the  words  and  music  of  this  famous  song. 


Andante. 


p 


1-   Yes! 
2.  Hark! 


the    dio     is 
tho    fa-  tal 


cast! 
bell, 


The   tur  -  bid  dream 
Each  pass-  ing    hour 


of    life     is     wan-  ing, 
the   dun-geon  wak  -  ing; 


The 


25    I 

f= 

h>   h 

—  i  

N  s  N- 

—  1  •  —  -j,—  —  - 

K- 

i    Hi 

-1  1 

Km    •  -     —*•  —  *  —  *-\-*-.  j  —  j1  j  i  0  b  —  P  —  •  \  J  •'•'•I  — 
tj                                                                 v 

gulf            will  soon   be     past,           The  soul    im  -  mor    -         tal   joy     at  -  tafn   -   ing. 
Chimes           a     sad  fare  -  well;            In    sol  -emn  tones            the    si  -  lence  break  -  ing. 

-*  1 

ffpr  

—  F 

—  i  —  i  —  i  — 
—  i  —  i  —  ^  — 

i  —  r 

—  F^ 
—  i  —  J  

=1- 

i    1   J    1 

•* 

^L      -J-   - 

1   V  '  ^V  '  ^ 

u   J.   J.  '  V-J-  *  -JL   -J-   ^  '^J.  ">  J. 

b  J 

^-rd  

-J  1 

^  r  i 

M*     ^ 

r      j 

i  

E3=    ^^ 

^&                       i 

—  «•                     —  i 

-j  

—  H 

^ 


^ 

Thus  then     I  fall,  my       na-tive  land    to  save,    Shall    I  live    a  slave?     No  I  the  free  and  brave 
Fell    u-surp-er,  know  thy     sav- age  ty  -  ran-ny      Soon  will  set  me  free;  Thwarted  thou  shall  be,  For 

^         A 


492 


OUR    FAMILIAR    SONGS. 

At  the  end  of  adverse  D.C.from  %  to  Fine. 


E U 1__ 


H 


i 


-&•— 


shall  scorn  to  yield,  My  country's  flag  shall  wave  A  -  round  the     pa-  triot's  grave ! 

I  shall  rise    a-bove  thee      in      e- ter- ni  -  ty,  Im  -  mor-tal  life  thougiv'stto      me. 


£^ 


TULLOCHGORUM. 

THE  author  of  this  song,  EEV.  JOHN  SKINNER,  was  born  at  Balfour,  Scotland,  October  3f 
1721.  He  was  liberally  educated,  and  had  been  given  to  rhyming  from  childhood.  He 
became  a  clergyman,  and  joined  himself  to  the  party  of  the  Episcopal  or  non-juring  clergy. 
Still,  he  could  not  have  been  a  very  strong  partisan,  for  his  song  of  "Tullochgorum"  was- 
made  expressly  to  assist  in  reconciling  contending  factions.  Mr.  Skinner  was  at  the  house 
of  Mrs.  Montgomery,  with  a  company,  when  a  dispute  arose  on  the  subject  of  Whig  and 
Tory  politics,  which  became  unpleasantly  exciting.  The  hostess  called  upon  Mr.  Skinner 
to  suggest  appropriate  words  for  the  "  Reel  of  Tullochgorum,"  whereupon  he  then  and 
there  made  the  song  which  Burns  called  "  the  best  Scotch  song  ever  Scotland  saw." 


fa    (*    9  — 

^      is   J  .  —  ><  — 

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J                                                         9-9                       _^L' 

1.  "Come     gie's      a   sang,"  Montgom  -  ery  cried, 
2.     Oh  !        Till-  loch  -  go  -  rum's  my        de-light, 

-9-2        •  1  1— 

9                         9 

"And  lay    your  dis-putes 
It      gars     us      a'        in 

1  1  

a' 
ane 

a  -  side  ;  "What 
u  •  nite,     And 

1  1- 

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sig    -    ni  -  fiest       for    folks       to    chide      For  what's   been   done       be  -  fore 
o    -     ny   sumph    that  keeps      up     spite,      In      con  -science     I          ab  -  hor 

\£Z    ^      1.    —  —  J  1  ..    -I-  ^r 

them? 
him. 

=f= 

Let 
For 

Sp     -fc 

—K  g  J?  — 

—  -T!  — 

3 

&&  —  J  =  H  a  

9 

^=  —  s=  —  f 

v» 

^i           i      *    i 

—  :     : 

TULLOCHGORUM. 


493 


Whig     and     To    -    ry       a'  a  -    gree, 

blithe    and    mer    -    ry     we'll        a'     be, 


Whig     and      To    -    ry,  Whig  and  To   -    ry, 
Blithe     and    mer  -    ry,  blithe  and  mer  -  r£ 


Whig     and     To    -     ry         a'          a  -  gree       To     drop    their  Whig  -  mig  -  mo    -    rum,     Let 
Blithe    and    mer    -    ry     we'll       be       a',      And  make       a     cheer  -  fu'     quo    -    rum,     For 


-*- 


i£*—  s- 

-p  —  -p  —  3S 

—  —          —  K  frr- 

g>    r 

g  c  •  g 

F=^ 

Whig 
blithe 

=b  ft.   J'.    iP  -j3  —  *—  ^       -b- 

and     To    -    ry        a'           a  -  gree       To    spend     the  night    with  mirth 
and    mer  -     ry    we'll        be       a',       As     lang       as     we       hae  breath 

3El  —  8- 

and  glee,  And 
to  draw,  And 

1 

/  *^ 

^ 

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dance      till      we         be     like 

wi'    me       The     reel           o'      Tul  -  loch   -    go     -       rum. 
to     fa',       The     reel           o'      Tul  -  loch   -    go     -       rum. 

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494 


OUR  FAMILIAR   SONGS. 


There  needs  na  be  sae  great  a  fraise, 
Wi'  dringing  dull  Italian  lays  ; 
I  wadna  gie  our  ain  strathspeys 

For  hauf-a-hunder  score  o'  them. 
They're  dowf  and  dowie  at  the  best, 
Dowf  and  dowie,  dowf  and  dowie, 
They're  dowf  and  dowie  at  the  best, 

Wi'  a'  their  variorum. 
They're  dowf  and  dowie  at  the  best, 
Their  Allegros  and  a'  the  rest: 
They  canna  please  a  Highland  taste, 

Compared  wi'  Tullochgorum. 

Let  warldly  minds  themselves  oppress  , 
Wi'  fears  o'  want  and  double  cess, 
And  silly  sots  themselves  distress 

Wi'  keeping  up  decorum. 
Shall  we  sae  sour  and  sulky  sit? 
Sour  and  sulky,  sour  and  sulky, 
Sour  and  sulky  shall  we  sit, 

Like  auld   Philosophorum  ? 
Shall  we  sae  sour  and  sulky  sit, 
Wi'  neither  sense,  nor  mirth,  nor  wit, 
Nor  ever  rise  to  shake  a  fit 

To  the  reel  o'  Tullochgorum? 


May  choicest  blessings  aye  attend 
Each  honest,  open-hearted  friend, 
And  calm  and  quiet  be  his  end, 

And  a'  that's  gude  watch  o'er  him. 
May  peace  and  plenty  be  his  lot, 
Peace  and  plenty,  peace  and  plenty, 
Peace  and  plenty  be  his  lot, 

And  dainties  a  great  store  o'  'em; 
May  peace  and  plenty  be  his  lot, 
Unstain'd  by  ony  vicious  blot, 
And  may  he  never  want  a  groat, 

That's  fond  o'  Tullochgorum ! 

But  for  the  discontented  fool 
Who  loves  to  be  oppression's  tool, 
May  envy  knaw  his  rotten  soul, 

And  discontent  devour  him  ! 
May  dool  and  sorrow  be  his  chance, 
Dool  and  sorrow,  dool  and  sorrow, 
Dool  and  sorrow  be  his  chance. 

And  nane  say,  wae's  me  for  him ; 
May  dool  and  sorrow  be  his  chance, 
And  a'  the  ills  that  come  frae  France, 
Whae'er  he  be  that  winna  dance 

The  reel  o'  Tullochgorum. 


MARTIAL  AND  PATRIOTIC  SONGS, 


44  Qui  vive  /»'    And  is  the  sentry's  cry,— 

The  sleepless  soldier's  band,  — 
Are  these  — the  painted  folds  that  fly 
And  lift  their  emblems,  printed  high 
On  morning  mist  and  sunset  sky  — 

The  guardians  of  a  land  ? 
No  I  if  the  patriot's  pulses  sleep, 
How  vain  the  watch  that  hirelings  keep, 

The  idle  flag  that  waves, 
When  Conquest,  with  his  iron  heel, 
Treads  down  the  standards  and  the  steel 

That  belt  the  soil  of  slaves ! 

—  Oliver  Wendell  Holm«$. 


How  sleep  the  brave,  who  sink  to  rest 
By  all  their  country's  wishes  blest  I 
When  spring,  with  dewy  fingers  cold, 
Returns  to  deck  their  hallowed  mould, 
She  there  shall  dress  a  sweeter  sod 
Than  fancy's  feet  have  ever  trod. 

By  fairy  hands  their  knell  is  rung, 
By  forms  unseen  their  dirge  is  sung : 
There  Honor  comes,  a  pilgrim  grey, 
To  bless  the  turf  that  wraps  their  clay; 
And  Freedom  shall  awhile  repair, 
To  dwell  a  weeping  hermit  there. 

—  William  Collint. 


MARTIAL  AND  PATRIOTIC  SONGS. 


BONNIE   DUNDEE. 

THE  words  of  this  ballad  are  by  SIR  WALTER  SCOTT.  Mary  Eussell  Mitford,  writing  of 
it,  says :  "  Nothing  seems  stranger,  among  the  strange  fluctuations  of  popularity,  than  the 
way  in  which  the  songs  and  shorter  poems  of  the  most  eminent  writers  occasionally  pass 
from  the  highest  vogue  into  the  most  complete  oblivion,  and  are  at  once  forgotten  as 
though  they  had  never  been.  Scott's  spirited  ballad,  '  The  Bonnets  of  Bonnie  Dundee,'  is 
a  case  in  point.  Several  persons  (among  the  rest,  Mrs.  Hughes,  the  valued  friend  of  the 
author)  have  complained  to  me,  not  only  that  it  is  not  included  amongst  Sir  Walter's  ballads, 
but  that  they  were  unable  to  discover  it  elsewhere.  Upon  mentioning  this  to  another  dear 
friend  of  mine,  the  man  who,  of  all  whom  I  have  known,  has  the  keenest  scent  for  literary 
game,  he  threw  himself  upon  the  track,  and,  failing  to  obtain  a  printed  copy,  succeeded  in 
procuring  one  in  manuscript,  taken  down  from  the  lips  of  a  veteran  vocalist,  not,  as  I  should 
judge,  from  his  recitation,  but  from  his  singing.  *  *  *  *  At  all  events,  the 
transcript  is  a  curiosity.  The  whole  ballad  is  written  as  if  it  were  prose.  I  endeavored  to 
restore  the  natural  division  of  the  verses;  and  having  since  discovered  a  printed  copy, 
buried  in  the  "  Doom  of  Devorgoil/  where  of  course  nobody  looked  for  it,  I  am  delighted 
to  transfer  to  my  pages  one  of  the  most  stirring  and  characteristic  ballads  ever  written." 
The  air  of  "  Bonnie  Dundee,"  under  that  title,  dates  from  1628. 


Allegretto. 


1.  To  the    Lords    of  Conven  -  tion  'twas  Claverhouse  spoke ;  Ere  the  King's  crown  go  down  there  are 

2.  Dun    -  dee      he    is    mounted,  he     rides  up    the  street,     The       bells  they  ring  backward,  the 


mjMjEgjjjj£ 


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498 


OUR   FAMILIAR   SONGS. 


crowns  to     be    broke,      Then       each    cav    -  a    -Her    who    loves  hon  -  or    and    me,       Le 
drums  they  are    beat,      But  the       pro  -  vost  (douce  man)  said,  "Just  e'en    let     it       be,       For 


H 


fol  -  low      the    bon  -  nets      of       Bon  -nie      Dun  -  dee.         Come  fill      up      my       cup,       come 
toun  is       weel    rid     o'       that      de'il   o'       Dun  -  dee."        Come  fill      up      my       cup,       come 


-N *- 


I        !        I     =1 
•*••*••*•         •*• 


up     my     can,     Come    sad  -  die     my    hors  -  es,    And       call    out     my       men!      Un  - 


-  hook  the  west  port,    And  let    us    gae  free,     For  its   up    wi'  the   bonnets    of  Bonnie  Dundee. 


He  spurred  to  the  foot  of  the  proud  castle  rock,    I  The  Gordon  demands  of  him  which  way  he  goes 


And  with  the  gay  Gordon  he  gallantly  spoke  : 
"  Let  Mons  Meg  and   her  marrows  speak   twa 

words  or  three, 

For  the  love  of  the  bonnet  of  Bonnie  Dundee." 
Come  fill  up  my  cup,  etc. 


"  Where'er  shall  direct  me  the  shade  of  Montrose  I 
Your   grace   in   short   space   shall   hear  tidings 

of  me, 

Or  that  low  lies  the  bonnet  of  Bonnie  Dundee." 
Come  fill  up  my  cup,  etc. 


BONNIE    DUNDEE. 


nills   beyond   Pentland,  and   lands 
_  ond  Forth, 

e's  lords  in  the  Lowlands,  there's  chiefs  in 
/the   North; 

.e  are  brave  Duinnewassals  three  thousand 
times  three, 

cry    'Hey    for   the     bonnet    of    Bonnie 
Dundee.' 

Come  fill  up  my  cup,  etc. 

"There's  brass  on  the  target  of  barkened  bull- 
hide  : 

There's  steel  in  the  scabbard  that  dangles  beside  ; 

The   brass   shall  be  burnished,  the   steel   shall 
flash  free, 

At  a  toss  of  the  bonnet  of  Bonnie  Dundee. 
Come  fill  up  my  cup,  etc. 


499 

"  Then  awa'  to  the  hills,  to  the  caves,  to  the  rocks ! 
Ere  I  own  a  usurper  I'll  crouch  with  the  fox; 
And  tremble,  false  Whigs,  in  the  midst  o'  your  glee, 
Ye  hae  no  seen  the  last  o'  my  bonnet  and  me." 
Come  fill  up  my  cup,  etc. 

He  waved  his  proud  hand,  and  the  trumpets  were 
blown, 

The  kettle-drums    clashed,   and    the    horsemen 

rode  on, 

Till  on  Ravelston's  cliffs  and  on  Clermiston's  lea 
Died  away  the  wild  war-notes  of  Bonnie  Dundee. 

Come  fill  up  my  cup,  come  fill  up  my  can, 
Come  saddle  the  horses  and  call  up  the  men, 
Come  open  your  gates  and  let  me  gae  free, 
For  it's  up  wi' the  bonnets  of  Bonnie  Dundee. 


HAIL  TO  THE  CHIEF. 


THIS  is  the  "boat-song"  in  the  second  canto  of  SCOTT'S  "Lady  of  the  Lake."  The 
song  is  intended  to  imitate  the  jorrams,  or  boat-songs  of  the  Highlanders,  which  were 
usually  composed  in  honor  of  a  favorite  chief.  These  boat-songs  are  adapted  to  the 
measure  of  the  oars,  and  it  is  easy  to  distinguish  between  those  intended  to  be  sung  to  the 
quick,  short  stroke  of  a  common  boat,  and  those  made  to  suit  the  long  sweep  of  a 
galley  oar. 

The  air  of  "  Hail  to  the  Chief"  was  written  by  SIR  HENRY  ROWLEY  BISHOP. 

f  Moderate. 


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2.    Ours        is     no 

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sap       -        ling,  chance-sown  by      the       fou 

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blest       be            the       ev   -     er  -  green    Pino!                   Long         may  the        tree        in         his 
Bel  -   tane,           in      win  -    ter         to        fade  ;                  When         the  whirl-  wind      has    stripp'd 

n       f        --f  j  —  r-0  —             —  '  —  r—  o  —             —  r~*  —    —  •  *  —  r  —  *  *  — 

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500 


OUR  FAMILIAR  SONGS. 

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ban-ner      that       glanc-es,  Flour -ish       the      shel  -  ter     and    grace    of      our   linel 

ev'ryleaf       on     the  mountain.  The  more  shall    Clan  -  Al  -  pine     ex  -    ult      in      her  shade. 


r~r"f     f  =fo=Fi — L-    l~rt — t — J— 
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Heav'n  send   it       hap  -   py    dew,  Earth      lend   it 
Moor'd      in     the     rift  -    ed    rock,  Proof       to    the 


sap  a   -  new,      Gai     -       ly         to 

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Sends     our  shout  back   a  -  gain,  "Rod  -  er  -  ick, 
Ech    -   o     his    praise  a  -  gain,  "Kod  -  er  -  ick, 


Rod  -  er  -  ick, 
Rod  -  er-  ick, 


Rod  -  er  -  ick  Vich 
Rod  -  er  -  ick  Vich 
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1-roudly  our  pibroch  has  thrilled  in  Glen  Fruin, 

And  Banochar's  groans  to  our  slogan  replied ; 
Glen  Luss  and  Ross-dhu,  they  are  smoking  in 

ruin, 

And  the  best  of  Loch  Lomond  lie  dead  on  her 
side. 

Widow  and  Saxon  maid, 
Long  shall  lament  our  raid, 
Think  of  Clan-Alpine  with  fear  and  with  woe ; 
Lennox  and  Leven-glen 
Shake  when  they  hear  again, 
"  Roderick  Vich  Alpine  dhu,  ho !  iero  ! " 


Row,  vassals,   row,  for  the  pride  of  the  High- 

ands, 

Stretch  to  your  oars,  for  the  evergreen  Pine  ! 
Oh,  that  the  rosebud  that  graces  yon  island, 
Were  wreathed  in  a  garland  around   him   to 
twine ! 

Oh  !  that  some  seedling  gem 
Worthy  such  noble  stem, 

Honored  and  blest  in  their  shadow  might  grow ! 
Loud  should  clan  Alpine  then 
Ring  from  her  deepest  glen, 
"Roderick  Vich  Alpine  dhu,  ho!  iero!" 


THE  BLUE  BELLS  OF  SCOTLAND.  501 

THE  BLUE  BELLS  OF  SCOTLAND. 

ANNIE  Me  VICAR  was  born  in  Glasgow,  Scotland,  February  21, 1755.  Her  father  was  an 
officer  in  the  British  army,  and  the  fortunes  of  the  service  brought  him  to  America  when  his 
daughter  was  two  years  old.  One  day  the  little  Annie  was  found  trudging  along  a  mile  from 
home,  and  when  a  friend  picked  her  up  she  said,  "  I  am  going  to  America,  to  see  papa."  A 
year  later,  the  mother  and  daughter  landed  at  Charleston,  and  rejoined  the  soldier  father 
in  a  fort  at  Albany.  Here  Annie  grew  to  girlhood.  She  had  a  play-room  in  which  she 
kept  two  treasures  besides  Indian  trinkets  and  relics  of  Scotland — Milton,  and  a  dictionary. 
The  "  Paradise  Lost"  she  knew  by  heart,  and  the  good  and  evil  angels  were  her  playmates, 
instead  of  French  dolls.  A  singularly  apropos  quotation  from  Milton  so  delighted  Madam 
Schuyler,  then  the  Lady  of  the  Land,  that  she  took  the  little  girl  under  her  own  roof. 
When  Annie  was  thirteeen  years  old,  the  family  returned  to  Scotland,  and  spent  three  years 
on  the  banks  of  the  Cart,  near  Glasgow,  when  they  removed  to  Fort  Augustus.  Here  Miss 
McVicar  married  Kev.  James  Grant,  chaplain  of  the  fort,  who  was  appointed  minister  at 
Laggan,  in  Inverness-shire.  Mr.  Grant  died,  leaving  his  wife  with  eight  children  dependent 
upon  her.  In  this  emergency,  her  old  knack  at  rhyming  came  into  her  mind,  and  she 
collected  her  poems  and  published  them  successfully  by  subscription.  A  few  years  later 
she  published  three  volumes  entitled  "  Letters  from  the  Mountains,"  which  passed  through 
several  editions.  Two  years  afterward  she  brought  out  the  "  Memoirs  of  an  American  Lady," 
the  most  interesting  of  her  works.  Other  volumes  of  prose  and  verse  followed,  and,  with  a 
pension  granted  her  by  the  government,  she  passed  the  rest  of  her  days  in  comfort,  sur- 
rounded by  warm  friends,  in  the  city  of  Edinburgh.  She  reached  the  age  of  eighty-four, 
with  faculties  almost  unimpaired.  Professor  Andrews  Norton,  of  Cambridge,  writes  her 
from  this  country,  "  It  was  delightful  to  find  you  in  old  age,  after  such  severe  trials,  so 
supported  and  strengthened  by  the  power  of  God— not  resigned  merely,  possessing  not 
the  calm  benevolence  of  age  alone ;  but  the  kindlier  feelings  in  their  freshness  and  flower 
which,  beautiful  as  they  are  in  youth,  become  so  much  more  deeply  interesting  when  we 
know  that  care  and  sorrow  had  no  power  to  wither  them."  Mrs.  Grant  died  November  7, 
1838.  She  wrote  "  0  where,  tell  me  where"  on  the  occasion  of  the  departure  of  the 
Marquis  of  Huntly  for  the  continent  with  his  regiment,  in  1799.  Ritson,  in  his  "  North 
Country  Chorister,"  printed  in  1802,  has  this  song  under  the  title  "  The  New  Highland 
Lad."  He  says,  "  The  song  has  been  lately  introduced  upon  the  stage.  It  was  originally 
'The  Bells  of  Scotland/  but  was  revised  by  Mrs.  Jordan,  who  altered  the  words  and  sang 
them  to  a  tune  of  her  own,  which  superseded  the  old  air."  When  Charles  Mackay  and  Sir 
Henry  Kowley  Bishop  were  arranging  old  English  airs,  this  song  came  under  discussion. 
Mackay  says,  "  The  Blue  Bells  of  Scotland  is  almost  invariably  spoken  of  as  a  Scottish  air ; 
but  Sir  Henry  found  reason  to  suspect  that  it  was  English,  and  urged  me  to  write  new 
words  to  it,  to  dispossess,  if  possible,  the  old  song  of  Mrs.  Jordan.  He  was  induced  to  fo 
this  opinion  by  receiving  from  Mr.  Fitzgerald, '  a  Sussex  tune'  to  a  song  commencing : 
I  have  been  a  forester  this  many  a  long  day.'  Three  or  four  bare  of  the  melody  were 
almost  identical  with  the  second  part  of '  The  Blue  Bells  of  Scotland,'  but  as  the  reman 
bore  no  resemblance  to  that  popular  favorite,  and  the  whole  tune  was  so  beautiful  that 
was  well  worth  preserving,  I  so  far  complied  with  Sir  Henry's  wish  as  to  write  'The  Magic 
Harp '  to  Mr.  Fitzgerald's  kind  contribution  to  our  work.  Sir  Henry  wrote  under  Oft 
the  22d  of  October,  1852,  '  I  am  strongly  of  opinion  that  when  Mrs.  Jordan  compose 
Blue  Bells  of  Scotland"  she  founded  her  air  upon  that  rescued  from  oblivion 
Mr.  Fitzgerald,-or  rather  that  she  originally  intended  to  sing  it  to  that  tune,  but  fl 
some  parts  of  it  too  high  for  her  voice,  which  was  of  a  very  limited  compass,  she  alt 
them,aiid  the  air  became  that  of  the  "Blue  Bells  of  Scotland."' 


502 


OUR    FAMILIAR    SONGS. 


1.  Oh  !  where,  tell  me  where     is  your  highland  lad-die  gone?   Oh  !  where,  tell  me  where    is    your 

2.  Ohl  where,  tell  me  where    did  your  Highland  laddie  stay?  Oh!  where,  tell  me  where   did  your 

3.  Ohl  what,  tell  me  what  does  your  Highland  laddie  wear?  Oh!  what,  tell  me  what   does  your 


*-=- 


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u      •* 

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Highland  lad  -  die  gone?"  He'sgone  with  streaming  banners,where  no  -  ble  deeds  are  done,  And  ray 
Highland   lad  -die  stay?  "He  dwelt  beneath  the  holly  trees,     Be-  side  the    rap  -  id  Spey,     And 
Highland   lad  -die  wear?  "A    bon-netwith   a     loft^y  plume,  the     gal-  lant  badge  of  war,  And  a 

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i 


_J. 


sad  heart  will  tremble,     till  he  come  safe- ly  home,  He's  gone  with  streaming  banners  where 

many  a  blessing  followed  him  the    day   he  went   a  -  way,     He  dwelt  beneath  the    holly  trees,  be- 
plaid  across  the  manly  breast  that      yet  shall  wear  a   star,      A      bon-  net  with   a    lofty  plume,  the 


no  -  ble   deeds  are  done,  And  my      sad  heart  will  trem  -  ble     till  he  come  safe-  ly  home." 

side  the     riv- er  Spey,     And       many  a  blessing  fol-lowed  him   the  day     he  went   a -way." 

gal-  lant  badge    of   war,   And  a  plaid  acros^jthe  man  -  ly  breast  that  yet  shall  wear  a   star." 

*    ^^ 1 


m 


± 


Suppose,    ah    suppose,   that  some   cruel,   cruel 


wound 


Should  pierce  your  Highland  laddie,  and  all  your 

hopes  confound  ; 
"  The  pipe   would  play  a  cheering  march,  the 

banners  round  him  fly, 
And  for  his  king  and  country  dear  with  pleasure 

would  he  die. 


But  I  will    hope  to  see    him  yet  in  Scotland's 

bonnie  bounds, 
But  I  will  hope  to  see  him  yet   in   Scotland's 

bonnie  bounds; 
His    native    land    of    liberty    shall    nurse    his 

glorious  wounds, 
While  wide  through  all  our  Highland  hills  his 

warlike  name  resounds." 


THE  BLUE  BELLS  OF  SCOTLAND, 


503 


The  following  altered  version  of  Mrs.  Grant's  song  became  even  more  popular  than 
the  original. 

Andantino. 


e 


-*-?- 


^^ 


i 


1.  Oh    where,  and   oh   where      is     your   Highland  lad -die      gone?    He's   gone    to  fight  the 

2.  Oh,  where,  and   oh  where   does   your   Highland  lad -die     dwell?    He   dwells  in   mer-ry 


-(SL 


French  for  King  George  upon  the  throne;  Audit's  oh,      in  my  heart,  how  I      wish  him  safe  at  home. 
Scot- land,  at  the  sign  of  the  Blue  Bell.     And  it's  oh,      in  my  heart,  that  I       love  my  lad-die  well. 


What  clothes,  in  what  clothes  is  your  Highland 
laddie  clad  ? 

His  bonnet's  of  the  Saxon  green,  his  waistcoat's 
of  the  plaid ; 

And  it's  oh !  in  my  heart,  that  I  love  my  High- 
land lad. 


Suppose,   oh,   suppose   that  your  Highland  lad 

should  die? 
The  bagpipes  shall   play  over  him,  I'll  lay  me 

down  and  cry ; 
And  it'f  oh !   in  my  heart,  that  I   wish  he  may 

not  die ! 


THE  GIRL   I   LEFT   BEHIND   ME. 

"  THE  girl  I  left  behind  me  "  is  no  doubt  of  Irish  origin.  It  has  been  found  in  a  manu- 
script dated  about  1770.  "The  air  was  also  taken  down,"  says  Bunting,  "from  A.  O'Neil, 
harper,  A.  D.  1800 — author  and  date  unknown.  The  air  was  written  for  a  march,  and  the 
English  version  of  the  words,  called  '  Brighton  Camp,'  differs  considerably  from  these." 
Chappell,  while  he  puts  in  an  English  claim  to  the  air,  admits  that  it  may  be  Irish.  He 
thinks  it  was  probably  written  in  1758,  when  there  were  encampments  along  the  coast — at 
Brighton  among  the  rest — where  many  tunes  of  this  sort  originated.  Wherever  it  was 
first  played,  it  is  now  almost  a  century  since  it  became  the  soldier's  and  sailor's  loathe-to- 
leave,  and  it  has  so  long  been  played  on  every  man-of-war  as  she  weighed  anchor,  and  for 
every  regiment  as  it  quitted  a  town  where  it  had  been  stationed,  that  an  omission  would 
be  thought  a  slight  upon  the  ladies. 


1.  The  dames  of   France  are   fond  and  free,    And  Flem  -  ish  lips      are 

2.  For    she's   as     fair      as    Shannon's  side,  And     pu  -  rer  than      its 


will     -      ing,    And 
wa      -      ter,     But 


& 


f-- 


soft     the    maids      of        I    -    ta   -    ly,      And      Span  -  ish     eyes      are       thrill  -  ing;     Still, 
she       re  -  fus'd       to       be      my    bride  Though  many  a      year       I        sought    her;     Yet, 


504 


OUB   FAMILIAR   SONGS. 


L£  T     _j  j  '•    / 

-Hr-F-f  11  F 

—t^k 

though     I       bask    be   -    neath   their  smile,  Their    charms    fail       to       bin 
since      to    France    I         sail'd       a  -  way,   Her       let-ters  oft       re_  -   min 

F^"^P^"^               !"•••                                                     ^^^^^1 

i           me,    And   mv 
d           me,    That   I" 

1 

a,   ? 

*  *  M  1 

tp                      EJ 

j           r 

JM~^- 

^              1                                                        1 

—                                               . 

/^\«           ^~                                                     —  , 

i                        • 

T 

P  5_      r 

=H  —                  1       —  < 

^_  J 

^•'t'  — 

-j  1  

3 

n                                                              ^ 

i 

H               4- 

^  y     t    *    i   t  —  •L-J  —  ;F^!b^-    ;'    '    J—  *-  -t^-iHU 

heart  falls   back     to               E  -    rin's   Isle,    To    the       girl       I        left     be     -     hind          me. 
pro  -  mis'd  nev  -  er               to       gain  -  say     The              girl       I        left     be     -     hind         me. 

j                                                                              ^ 

^= 

1    /V).          *                                                                                                     K          f 

p\ 

N        J          p"^     11 

\  P^L  r  -±-  —  b 

—  J  *  =1  — 

J  £        J  —  H  —  H 

\  V^p.  —                                           —  —  e  —          —  a  ^ 

.  m.  

*  p     *  H—  H 

She  says,  "  My  own  dear  love  come  home, 
My  friends  are  rich  and  many, 
Or  else,  abroad  with  you  I'll  roam, 
A  soldier  stout  as  any  ; 
If  you'll  not  come,  nor  let  me  go, 
I'll  think  you  have  resigned  me," 
My  heart  nigh  broke  when  I  answered  "  No," 
To  the  girl  I  left  behind  me. 

9 

For  never  shall  my  true  love  brave 
A  life  of  war  and  toiling, 
And  never  as  a  skulking  slave 
I'll  tread  my  native  soil  on  ; 
But  were  it  free  or  to  be  freed, 
The  battle's  close  would  find  me 
To  Ireland  bound,  nor  message  need 
From  the  girl  I  left  behind  me. 

THE  SOLDIER'S  TEAR. 

THOMAS  HAYNES  BAYLY  wrote  the  words  of  this  soug.  The  air  was  composed  by 
ALEXANDER  LEE,  an  Irishman,  son  of  Harry  Lee,  the  famous  boxer.  Alexander  resided  for 
many  years  in  London.  He  was  at  first  a  professional  singer,  but  afterwards  became  suci  •<  -ss- 
ively  manager  of  Drury  Lane  and  other  theatres.  He  realized  large  sums  of  money,  but 
finally  became  very  poor,  and  died  in  Kensington,  in  1849,  on  the  very  evening  when  a 
concert  was  being  given  for  his  benefit.  His  ballads,  which  are  very  numerous,  are 
characterized  by  great  sweetness  and  simplicity. 

kl 


==FF^ 

-»— r-*-rv 


1.  Up  -    on       the  hill       he   turn'd, 

2.  Be  -   side     that  cot  -   tage  porch, 

3.  He     turn'd  and  left      the   spot, 


To     take        a     last     fond    look,     Of      the 

A      girl      was   on       her    knees,    She 

Oh!     do        not  deem     him   weak,    For 


THE   SOLDIERS    TEAR. 

— K- 


505 


val   -    ley  and       the     vil  -  lage  church,  And  the  cot-tage     by        the    brook;  He 

held        a-  loft         a      snow   -    y  scarf ,  Which     flut-ter'd     in         the    breeze;  She 

daunt  -  less  was       the     sol  -  die r's  heart,  Tho'     tears  were   on        his    cheek;  Go 


lis-ten'd  to  the    sounds, 

breath'd     a  pray'r  for  him,., 

watch      the  fore-  most         ranks . . 


i  J* 


fa  -  mi  -  liar  to  his  ear, 
A  pray'r  he  could  not  hear, 
In  dan  -  ger's  dark  ca  •  reer, 


And  the 
But  he 
Be 


,4  LI* 

1=^= 


i: 


sol   -    dier    leant      up  -    on        his    sword,  And    wip'd    a 

paus'd      to       bless     her        as         she    knelt,  And    wip'd    a 

sure       the     hand    most,   dar  -    ing    there    Has     wip'd    a 


way 
way 
way 


tear, 
tear, 
tear. 


it 


& 


1 p — p; 

?=^3^CT 


*; 


THE   DASHING  WHITE   SERGEANT. 

THE  music  of  "  The  Dashing  White  Sergeant"  was  composed  by  SIR  HENRY  ROWLEY 
BISHOP.    The  author  of  the  words  is  unknown. 


Allegro  a  la  militaire. 


j —  — 0 ^ • —  "m~~i — 


SOb 


OUR  FAMILIAR   SONGS. 


no,  not    II 
no,  not     I! 


Fora      sol    -    dier  who'd  go,  Do  you  think  I'd  say     no?    No, 
Do  you  think      I'd  take  on,    Or  sit    moping  for -lorn?  No, 


red    coat      I  saw, 
fame  my    concern, 


I    r~          izrfiz£_ 


Not    a     tear  would  it  draw, 
How  my    bo-som  would  burn, 


But  I'd 
When  I 


I 


m 


yt- 


•IF 


give       him       e  -  clat        for      his     bra       -     ve    -    ryl 
saw        him     re  -  turn  crown'd  with  vie       -     to    -    ry  I 


If      an    ar   -  my  of  Am  -azons  e'er 
If      an    ar   -  my  of  Am  -aisons  e'er 


THE  DASHING    WHITE   SERGEANT. 

— ly 


507 


came     in      play,  As   a       dashing  white    ser  -  geant  I'd 


march    a  -  way, 


A      dash-ing   white    ser  -  geant  I'd 


3^ 


+  P 


j^=M— 


march  a   -way,  march  a  -   way,  march  a  -    way,  march  a  -  way , mar 

— -!    «_ 


-» — 


/ 


Ul£~   ^ 

^EEF^  —  r*i 

_i  —  »  — 

p.  i       !     " 

_H  

1  '     ;     J    j^ 

^_i=^_  . 

rf  — 

P*  —  *=?=*—  : 

FU-*   .   -'did 

W^ 

=r=-r-~  r-.-^—  ~ 
.     -t      •*?•?•+ 

march    a- 


march      a-   way,       march    a-    way march  a    -  way. 


508 


OUR   FAMILIAR   SONGS. 


THE  GALLANT  TROUBADOUR. 

THIS  song,  as  well  as  "  Dunois  the  Brave,"  formed  part  of  a  manuscript  collection  of 
French  songs  which  were  said  to  have  been  picked  up  on  the  field  of  Waterloo,  by  a  gentle- 
man whose  daughter  transferred  them  to  SIR  WALTER  SCOTT,  who  made  the  translations. 
Scott  says  they  probably  formed  part  of  a  collection  made  by  an  officer,  and  adds  that  the 
manuscript  was  so  much  stained  with  blood  and  clay  as  sufficiently  to  indicate  the  fate  of 
its  late  owner. 


BE 


J 


1.  Glow-ing    with  love,      on     fire          for 

2.  And,wbile  he  march'd,  with  helm        on 


fame, 
head, 


A   trou  -  ba-  dour      that   hat     -     ud 
And  harp      in  hand      the    des    -    cant 


sor 
rang, 


row,  Beneath       his        la 
. ...      As  faith  -   ful        to 


dy's    win    -    dow         came, 
his      fav'   -    rite  maid, 


And  thus    he 
The  minstrel 


i — K-i    x  = —    FT— I — !      I  7'"!"! 


sang       his        last      good    morrow; — 
bur  -   then      still        he         sang:— 


;  My     arm          it      is         my      eoun  -  try's  right—  My 
31  y      arm          it      is         my      conn  -  try's  right ;    My 


THE  GALLANT    TROUBADOUR. 


509 


n  tt     ^ 

^ 

^^i^ 

tL                          N 

^ 

r    'Ti*- 

r 

f 

f 

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p           r 

*                 II 

f      jX     j 

1 

r    '              J           _n 

J           V  •        i* 

LL^_        * 

— 

4  *  —  * 

_^_-        • 

"H                 II 

s 

Be 

1*  —  i 
lant        trou    -     ba    • 

dour. 

fi" 

lit' 

j^ 

lant        trou    -     ba    - 

dour. 

ite= 

—— 

i     £  n 

'*•:•: 

b= 

-* 

^  J^ 

+i 

- 

-* 

• 

-*-        nf 
—  1  g  1~ 

s 

—  jh~ 
^-,di 

^  # 

—  -  — 

—  4  — 

•  •> 

1    ^                          ffj 

K 

"  I     y  I' 

E'en  when  the  battle's  roar  was  deep, 

With  dauntless  heart  he  hewed  his  way, 
'Mid  splintering  lance  and  falchion-sweep, 

And  still  was  heard  the  warrior  lay  :  — 
"  My  life  it  is  my  country's  right, 

My  heart  is  in  my  lady's  bow'r ; 
For  love  to  die,  for  fame  to  fight, 

Becomes  the  valiant  Troubadour." 


Alas  !  upon  the  bloody  field 

He  fell,  beneath  the  foeman's  glaive, 
But  still,  reclining  on  his  shield, 

Expiring  sang  th'  exulting  stave:  — 
"  My  life  it  is  my  country's  right ; 

My  heart  is  in  my  lady's  bow'r; 
For  love  and  fame  to  fall  in  fight 

Becomes  the  valiant  Troubadour." 


DUNOIS  THE  BRAVE. 

HORTENSE  EUGENIE  BEAUHARNAIS,  mother  of  Napoleon  III.,  has  long  enjoyed  the 
reputation  of  being  both  author  and  composer  of  the  following  song.  Under  its  original 
title  of  "  Partant  pour  la  Syrie,"  it  became  a  favorite  French  national  melody;  and  under 
the  title  of  "  Dunois  the  Brave,"  Sir  Walter  Scott's  translation  of  it  was  one  of  the  drawing- 
room  favorites  in  America  fifty  years  ago.  It  was  written  and  composed  upon  the 
departure  for  Syria  of  the  Count  of  Flahaut,  one  of  the  flatterers  pf  Queen  Hortense. 
Drouet,  who  was  her  musical  secretary,  has  left  laughable  accounts  of  the  way  in  whHi  In- 
was  compelled  by  her  imperious  Majesty  to  reduce  her  crude  airs  to  rhythm  and  melody, 
and  if  the  truth  were  ever  told  of  royal  highnesses,  this  fiue  air  might  perhaps  own  an 
humbler  origin.  Queen  Hortense,  of  Holland,  daughter  of  Alexjiudre  and  Josephine 
Beauharnais,  was  born  in  Paris,  April  10,  1783,  and  died  at  Areuberg,  Switzerland, 

October  5,  1837. 

K 


1.  it 

2.  His 


was 
oath 


Du-nois,   the    young   and  brave,   Was  bound 
of    hon-  our      on       the  shrine      he  graved 


for   Pal  -     es  -  tine, 
it   with       his   sword, 

I 


But 

And 


510 


OUR   FAMILIAR   SONGS. 


,.Ag  1  =-  1  1  —  r- 

^.  1  j 

~~1~~r 

~d  1  }— 

—  J^=- 

tJ                                   ~*" 
first        he  made      his 
fol-  low'd    to       the 

&  F  :  F  f  Y  I 

3.  3  i 

o    -     ri  -  son 
Ho   •     ly  Land 

-f^-F-f- 

be  •  fore     Saint       Ma 
the     ban  -  ner        of 

-r-rr   t    e 

—  f^-z^zz^^ 

r     *      ^ 

-    ry's       shrine:        "And 
his         lord;        Where, 

*  ^^  ^  — 

'  j 

Pw1 

—  ^-- 

r    r    i 

1    !         I 

—  U  L 

=      ' 
2  *  1 

1 

grant,     im  -    mor    -  tal 
faith  -  ful         to         his 

T^T-JJ  0  •  •  0- 

^+=£-3r-3r-*    i    \-=^^r^-'^ 

queen       of  heav'n,"  Was  still       the       sol-  dier's  prav'r,          "That 
no  -    ble  vow,      his     war  -  cry      fill'd       the       air,           "  Be 

-i  —  0—  !  »  0  *  —  i  —  0  •  0  •  —  •  —  &  :—  *  • 

fif)3i  1  F  ^  £- 

1t  —  r~r 

rt  —  ^~=^ 

»      ~V~1 

S~^t  

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--b-.  —  b  —  U- 

* 

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C  L 

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i     i     '     i 

A  P                             r~^      r" 

T^   T^\ 

1    J     r 

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j    i  • 

j  •   j 

j  «  • 

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dk-£  h  £  J    J    j 

a  1|  «  — 

J 

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w  J-^—  *—       —  *- 

i  a-:  —  d  — 

—  ^-^  —  j— 

—  «  —  »  — 

sH  H 

•J                              F 
I       mav     prove      the         brav  -  est  knight, 
hon  -  or'd       aye        the        brav  -   est  knight, 

and    love       the 
be    loved      the 

i 

fair    -    est 
fair    -    est 

fair.'' 
fair." 

/»Vtt      F                   i*   ii 

r 

r 

»      •-  »        -  • 

f          P 

"            II 

czSu     L  •      i*       F        r 

. 

•  •     U 

r2   '         II 

£231     p 

.  » 

..»    :  *       P 

. 

:    r         II 

They  owned  the  conquest  of  his  arm,  and  then 

his  liege  lord  said ; 
"  The  heart  that  has  for  honor  beat  by  bliss  must 

be  repaid, 
My  daughter  Isabel  and  thou  shall  be  a  wedded 

pair, 
For  thou  art  bravest  of  the  brave,  she  fairest  of 

the  fair. 


I 

And  then  they  bound  the  holy  knot  before  Saint 

Mary's  shrine, 
That  makes  a  paradise  on  earth  if  hearts  and 

hands  combine  : 
And   every  lord  and   lady  bright   that  were   in 

chapel  there, 
Cried,  "  Honored  be  the  bravest  knight,  beloved 

the  fairest  fair." 


THE  MARCH   OF  THE  CAMERON  MEN. 

THE  name  of  the  authoress  of  "  The  March  of  the  Cameron  Men  "  was  long  unknown. 
The  song  was  written  in  her  youth  by  Miss  MARY  MAXWELL  CAMPBELL,  who  shared  the 
Scottish  mania  for  concealment.  Miss  Campbell's  home  was  at  Pitfour,  Eifeshire.  Her 
father  was  Dugald  Campbell,  of  Skerrington,  Ayrshire.  The  song  had  been  long  assigned 
to  others,  when  Miss  Campbell  confessed  its  source  and  said  that  she  composed  it  "  after 
travelling  from  morning  to  night  through  Highland  scenery,  with  a  member  of  the  family 
of  Lochiel."  It  alludes  to  the  rising  in  1745,  and  the  chief  who  inspires  it  is  Donald 
Cameron  of  Lochiel,  made  immortal  by  Campbell's  lyric.  He  was  the  head  of  the  powerful 
clan  Cameron,  and  was  devotedly  loved  for  his  social  virtues  as  well  as  his  prowess.  The 
"  gentle  Lochiel,"  as  he  was  named,  did  not,  however,  die  at  Culloden ;  he  escaped  to 
France  with  a  wound,  and  afterward  commanded  a  regiment  in  the  French  service.  When 
Prince  Charles  landed  for  that  fatal  encounter,  Lochiel  tried  to  dissuade  him  from  his 
purpose  for  the  present,  but,  failing  in  that,  he  placed  himself  and  his  powerful  following 
at  the  Prince's  service.  There  is  a  ballad  called  "  Tranent  Muir,"  written  by  Mr.  Skirving, 
which  says : 

Down  guns  they  threw,  and  swords  they  drew, 

And  soon  did  chase  them  aff,  man : 
On  Seaton  Crafts  they  bufTd  their  chafts, 


The  great  Lochiel,  as  I  heard  tell, 
Led  Camerons  on  in  cluds,  man : 

The  morning  fair,  and  clear  the  ah", 
They  loos'd  wi'  devilish  thuds,  man. 


Andgar'd  them  rin  like  daft,  man. 


THE  MARCH   OF    THE    UAMEROX  MEN. 


511 


jojfa  3=r  i 

-ft    HS      f*     f-     "^  —  *  —  1 

\  \~  "  »  •       ^"  1 

1.  There's 
2.    Oh! 
3.    The 

ma  -  ny            a        man         of      the 
proud  -  ly         they      walk,      but     each 
moon  has           a    -     ris     -    en,       It 

Ca       -  me  -  ron       clan,     That   has 
Ca       -  me  -  ron     knows,     He     may 

fr^            O           1 

—  j  if5  j  J~  — 

j  ^3  _j  _j  

m±J 

9 

i        i    s        i 

i               *      *               * 

p\  *  it    ft     i 

—  1  h      _:             _4s_ 

I                                                    i 

if  "s  ^ 

—  «  —             —  «  •  —             —  4— 

0  0  0  0  
1  1  j  -1  

•*• 

-*                    -+        -+                    •+ 

fol-Iow'd  his  chief  to  the  field;., 
tread  on  the  heath  -  er  no  more,, 
trod  by  the  gal  -  lant  and  true;. 


He  has  sworn  to  sup  -  port  him,  or 
But  bold  -  ly  he  fol  -  lows  his 
High,  hign  are  their  hopes,  for  their 


die  by  his 
chief  to  the 
chief  -  tain  has 


side,  For  a  Ca  -  me  -  ron  nev  -  er  can  yield, 
field,  Where  his  lau  -  rels  were  gath-er'd  be  -  fore, 
said,  That  what  -  ev  -  er  men  dare  they  can  do... 


I       hear      the 


Pib    -  roch  sound-ing,  sound  -ing,  deep  o'er  the  mountain   and    glen  .....      While 


CIS 


OUR  FAMILIAR  SONGS. 


» 


-9 9 9- 


* tzzj 0_£L^ S — «_L— «L_ ^I^r_ — ^ 


light-springing  footsteps  are    trampling  the  heath,  'Tis  the  march  of  the    Ca  -  me  -ron    men 


I  SEE  THEM  ON  THEIR  WINDING  WAY. 

BISHOP  HEBER  extemporized  the  words  of  this  song,  one  evening,  for  a  favorite  cousin, 
who  was  visiting  in  the  family.  They  were  made  to  suit  a  march  played  by  the  lady,  in 
which  the  sounds  of  a  military  band  were  imitated. 

A"v"""'-  j .Ld-,jU-=j3: 


3=  :_J._j_=gi<q 
—i *\ — ^ 

'» »~-  *^=3p= 


1.  I        see    them    on    their  wind  -  ing  way,     A  -  bout  their  ranks    the    moon-beams  play ;  Their 

2.  A  -gain,      a-  gain    the    peal-  ing  drum,  The    clash -ing  horn,  they   come,     they  come,  Thro' 


-t: 


^     fr     U     0 


**=? 


rt 


fe£ 


J 


===r^ 
=t3%=t3=* 


lot   -    ty    deeds      and   dar  -  ins 
rock  -    y     pass,      o'er    wood  -co 


high, 
steep, 


r~ c~r 


Blend  with  the  notes      of     vie  -  to  -  ry ;    And 
In        long       and  glitt  -  'ring  files  they  sweep ;  And 

> 
-0 «- 


^=5=J=F: 


~^- 


near 

i i 

-4^—4- 


er,     near 


s 
HP 
er,  yet 


wav       -    ing      arms,         and    ban       -    ners    bright,  Are  glanc  -  ing       in 

near        -     er.      near        -    er.    vet...     ,.   more    near.  Their  soft    -en'd    c.ho 


more    near, 


the 
rus 


5^ 


w-y-E- 


m 


Are  glanc  -  in:?,  glancing  in        the 
Their  soft  -  en'd,  soften'd  cho  -  rus 


mel 
meets 


-    low 
the 


light, 
ear, 


They're  lost     and       gone,. 
Forth,  forth,    and       meet,. 


j.   SEE    THEM    ON   THEIR    WINDING    WAY. 

IN 


513 


V       \  i/ 

past,  The    wood's dark  shade  is     o'er  them  cast,     is    o'er   them  'cast  Am 

way,    ^    The    tramp        -        ing  hoof s  brook  no      de  -  lay,' brook  no       de- fay, '  With 

.,__, ,_,_£ 


The  wood's  dark  shade  is     o'er  them  cast, 
The  tramp  -ing  hoofs  brook  no     de  -  lay, 


cres. 


faint  -  er,    faint   -  er,     faint  •   er      still      The  march      is     ris    -    ing  o'er       the     hill 

thrill  -  ing     fife       and   peal   -   ing  drum,    And    clash  -  ing  horn,    they  come,  they  come,    they 

-* * * *— r+ * * — T ft— ft *_^t- 


rs 
come, 


•  ing      o'er       the       hill, ris  -    ing     o'er       the        hill 

they  come,    they      come,....        they    come,    they  come,    they      come 


y  y  ^  y y  '  ^      ~y 


-dz- 


-£=* 


_l — _ — 0 

E^=Li!t=z« 


E^EE^Efe! 


see     them     on     their     wind  -  ing   way,        A  -  bout    their  ranks    the    moon-beams  play ;  Their 


ty    deeds      and   dar  -  ing      high 

jp. « *._ 


9—9 
Blend  with  the  notes      of     vie  -  to  -  ry. 


THE   CAMPBELLS  ARE  COMIN'. 

"FEW  names  deserve  more  honorable  mention  in  the  history  of  Scotland,  during  the  mem- 
orable year  1715,  than  that  of  John,  Duke  of  Argyle  and  Greenwich.  Soaring  above  the  petty 
distinctions  of  faction,  his  voice  was  raised  for  those  measures  which  were  at  once  just  and 
lenient."  Thus  writes  Walter  Scott  in  "The  Heart  of  Mid-Lothian."  Pope  alludes  to— 

"  Argyle,  the  state's  whole  thunder  born  to  wield, 
And  shake  alike  the  senate  and  the  field." 

These  quotations  both  refer  to  John  Campbell,  the  "Great  Argyle"  of  this  familiar 
song.    The  martial  air  "  The  Campbells  are  cornin' "  is  very  old. 

(38) 


514 


OUB    FAMILIAR    SONGS. 


1.  The  Campbells  are     corn-ill',    o   -    ho,         o  -    ho,       The    Campbells  are    com -in',     o- 


s 


-ho,         o  -    ho,       The     Campbells  are    com  -  in'    To       bon    -     nie    Loch  -  le  -  ven :  The 


/L  ft     r     •     r       J      PK. 

P 

• 

E 

r       r  "  "F  " 

IfhurL        *      J       P 

J              ! 

^ 

t 

^  \)            V       \,       V                  w       J 

I             »        i 

u       u        ^ 

§  J 

r  1.  Up  -    on 
Campbells  are    com  -  in',     o   -     ho,             o    -    ho.    <  2.  Great    Ar     - 
(  3.  The    Camp   - 

n  *                               fc  ^                  1 

the       Lo-  monds 
gyle,           goes       t 
bells            they        a 

h 

[ 

e- 
re 

»  —  n 

V  *ru-      »            f         ^*^^ 

\ 

m          m    '         P 

X    tf      r      «      r        J  ^^^^ 

B 

1, 

c        r           i 

-J 

(M)        '      r     '             J  ~H 

J                J 

i 

J        1            m 

i 

»                f         { 

I 

1*  '     j 

"1 

^-.^n 

*                  99 

- 

^-  ft  g|  

#  — 

—  * 

—  -m  — 

r  ' 


V 


lay,  I  lay,          Up   -     on 

fore,  be    -     fore,        He       makes 

a'  in          arms,     Their       loy 


the  Lo  -  monds  I  lay, 
the  can  -  nons  and  guns 
al  faith  and  truth 


I       layi  I 

to      roar;         Wi' 
to     show ;        Wi' 


THE  CAMPBELLS  ABE   COMIN'. 


look-ed     down    to     bon-nie  Loch-le-ven,  And      saw      three     bon  -     nte       pi-   pers 
sound  o'      trum-pet,      pipe,  and    drum,  The  Campbells  are   com -in',    o  -    ho 
ban-ners      rat  -  tlin'       in       the    wind,  The  Campbells  are   com -in',    o   -    ho'        o- 


play, 
ho. 
ho. 


TO  GREECE  WE  GIVE  OUR  SHINING  BLADES. 

THIS  is  the  opening  song  in  THOMAS  MOORE'S  "Evenings  in  Greece."     SIR  HENRY 
ROWLEY  BISHOP  arranged  the  air. 

mP  s       i 


EjeiqEB  —  N  |    l 

—  J-rJ  

^      S  1 

-^     K      ^     K    I 

tj 

1.    The     sky         is  bright,     the  breeze 

2.    The  moon        is      in        the  heav'n 

-0-        -0-      -f- 

to-  u  P  f  I  f  —  f-^  —  ^TT  — 

4-4—!i—  j- 

-is    fair,  And  the 
a  -bove,  And  the 

main  - 
wind 

f  • 

sail 
is 

-M  i  jTi  ^ 

flow  -  ing     full    and 
on     the     foam-  ing 

£jr    f  . 

1   ' 

V 

-^-b—  i  — 
i      i 

N 

1 

K. 

is 

N 

fs 

—                  s 

f 

; 

P 

-    : 

/Lb  n                              « 

J  '     x  J           3 

J 

J 

• 

J 

J 

^ 

[(TV    P     «  •         m    9.    m 

m  '       m          M 

M                  W 

I 

s*z        j  .       j   »   • 

9 

» 

free,           full   and       free;....         Our    part  -   ing 
sea,           foam-ing        sea;....         Thus  shines     the 

word 
star 

of 

-p- 

\\ 

\\ 

• 

ro  -  man's  pray'r,  And   the 
o  -  man's  love,     On     the 

-    f   *   f    , 

@\  fr       •  •        U    -  ••   r 

f—i  —  1  1  — 

1*             0 

p 

• 

» 

->  

• 

f 

*  — 

Wh   k.     p              I 

§ 


hope       be  -  fore     us —    lib  -  er  -  ty! 
glo  -  rious     strife    of        lib  -  er  -  ty! 


lib  -  er 
lib  -  er 


— 


tyl) 
ty!J 


Fare    -    well  I 


Fare     -     well  I. 


To  Greece     we       give    our     shin  -  ing     blades,  our     shin 

-"•  £        £      •*• 


516 


OUR    FAMILIAR    SONGS. 


blades,    And  our  hearts    to    you,  young    Ze  -  an    maids,  young  Ze  -   an       maids ! 

•   •     » 

f-  f   r  rz- 


hearts       to     you,      oar     hearts  to        you,  young       Ze 


fcE£ 


^FP 


Our 

f 


S 


T 


SCOTS,   WHA   HAE  WF   WALLACE  BLED. 

ON  the  30th  of  July,  1793,  EGBERT  BURNS  and  a  friend,  Mr.  Syme,  were  travelling  on 
horseback,  "by  a  moor  road,  where  savage  and  desolate  regions  extended  wide  around." 
"The  sky,"  says  Mr.  Syme,  "  was  sympathetic  with  the  wretchedness  of  the  soil;  it  became 
lowering  and  dark,  the  hollow  winds  sighed,  the  lightnings  gleamed,  the  thunder 
rolled.  The  poet  enjoyed  the  awful  scene;  he  spoke  not  a  word,  but  seemed  wrapt 
in  meditation.  What  do  you  think  he  was  about  1  He  was  charging  the  English  army 
along  with  Bruce  at  Bannockburn.  He  was  engaged  in  the  same  manner  on  our  ride  home 
from  St.  Mary's  Isle,  and  I  did  not  disturb  him.  Next  day  he  produced  the  following 
address  of  Bruce  to  his  troops." 

Burns  says,  in  a  letter  to  Mr.  Thomson,  dated  September,  1793 :  "  I  borrowed  the 
last  stanza  from  the  common  stall  edition  of  Wallace :  — 

'  A  false  usurper  sinks  in  every  foe, 
And  liberty  returns  with  every  blow '  — 

a  stanza  worthy  of  Homer."  In  another  letter  he  says:  "I  do  not  know  whether  the 
old  air  of  'Hey  tuttie  taittie/  may  rank  among  this  number;  but  well  I  know  that, 
with  Eraser's  hautboy,  it  has  often  filled  my  eyes  with  tears.  There  is  a  tradition  which  I 
have  met  with  in  many  places  in  Scotland,  that  it  was  Eobert  Brace's  march  at  the  battle 
of  Bannockburn.  This .  thought,  in  my  solitary  wanderings,  warmed  me  to  a  pitch  of 
enthusiasm  on  the  theme  of  liberty  and  independence,  which  I  threw  into  a  kind  of 
Scottish  ode,  fitted  to  the  air,  that  one  might  suppose  to  be  the  gallant  royal  Scot's  address 
to  his  heroic  followers  on  that  eventful  morning.  So  may  God  ever  defend  the  cause  of 
truth  and  liberty  as  he  did  that  day !  Amen.  P.  S. — I  showed  the  air  to  Urbani,  who  was 
highly  pleased  with  it,  and  begged  me  to  make  soft  verses  for  it;  but  I  had  no  idea  of 
giving  myself  any  trouble  upon  the  subject,  till  the  accidental  recollection  of  that  glorious 
struggle  for  freedom,  associated  with  the  glowing  ideas  of  some  other  struggles  of  the  same 
nature,  not  quite  so  ancient,  roused  my  rhyming  mania." 

Thomson  answers :  "  Your  heroic  ode  is  to  me  the  noblest  composition  of  the  kind  in 
the  Sottish  language.  I  happened  to  dine  yesterday  with  a  party  of  your  friends,  to  whom 
I  read  it.  They  were  all  charmed  with  it,  entreated  me  to  find  a  suitable  air  for  it,  and 
reprobated  the  idea  of  giving  it  a  tune  so  totally  devoid  of  interest  or  grandeur  as  '  Hey 
tuttie  taittie.' " 


SCOTS,   WHA   HA'E    WI>     WALLACE  BLED. 


517 


This  decision  led  to  a  wretched  lengthening  of  the  concluding  line  of  every  stanza — "or 
to  glorious  victory" — "Edward,  chains,  and  slavery" — "Traitor,  coward,  turn  and  flee," 
etc.,  to  adapt  it  to  an  air  called  "Lewie  Gordon,"  which  it  never  suited.  The  poet's  instinct 
was  the  true  one,  and  the  ode  only  became  successful  as  a  song  when  it  was  reset  to  the 
air  of  "  Hey  tuttie  taittie,"  to  which  alone  it  is  ever  sung. 


iLfck-a-    HS-       -A     •-*           4—  K       -15       1 

i  —  is  s  is  1 

=^       ^  —  T 

tr                                 —  *  — 

1.  Scots,   wha    ha'e       wi'    Wai   -  lace   bled, 
2.  Wha      will      be         a      trai   -   tor   knave? 
3.    By         op  -  pres  -  sion's  woes      an'  pains, 

-f)  j^-n  -i  V  1 

Scots,  wham  Bruce   has 
Wha    will      fill          a 
By     your    sons       in 

i  —  K  —            —  K  —       — 

af    -    ten      led, 
cow  -  ard's  grave  ? 
ser  -  vile    chains, 

P     •*       j    «* 

SJ                              *f 

—  s  —           *•  *  —  1 

W^Sr     ft                    i                          i 

7              •.        7 

m           i              m           ' 

i          W          1         1 

vs  y  •  _  4    *                 § 

0                          J 

2                     Z 

J                    '    ~  0    ' 

«/              0   "                0 
P 

r-HS  f  1 

Z3ZH5         t     «r' 

t  »  . 

I*      r        P      1 

«.  .        —  *-    1 

—b  4  —  •  —     «  —  7  — 

i  ——  *•  i  

3  —  —  5  —  -  — 

"t3  *  

H^EB    f    f  •    -#  ->-    ^   • 

-i  K  S  K  i 

-0  S  N- 

r 

Wel  -  come     to         your       go  -    ry      bed,               Or          to      vie    -    to 
Wha        sae   base         as         be          a      slave?             Let         him    turn      an' 
We         will  drain        our      dear  -  est    veins,             But        they  shall       be 

-      riel 
fleel 
free. 

/|@^  —  5  —  ?       «     ^     |'~8"  f  $ 
w/                             r— 

«               «        ,  .,                  J«         -        , 

gj 

—  i  = 

u             •*                     * 

"i?           u            u 

b=p  =3 

Fow's    the     day       an'     now's   the    hour, 
Wha,      for    Scot  -land's  king      an'     law 
Lay      the  proud       u  -  surp  -  ers     low  ! 


See       the    front      of       bat  -    tie    lour; 
Free  -dom  s  swa  rdw,  illstr  ong-ly    draw, 
Ty  -   rants  fall 


_^  K  — 

l<                          N  i 

—  s  —              •»' 

—  «  f  

•—  5— 

N  ? 

.j±_J  tf  

_|  ^  

rj5  —          2=         i^ 

See  ap  -  proach  proud     Ed  -  ward's  pow'r, 

Free  -    man    stand,      or       free   -  man      fa', 
Lib    •     er  -  ty's          in        ev    -     ry     blow  ! 


Chains  and 
Let  him 
Let  us 


sla  -  ve 
fol  -  low 
do  or 


riel 
me! 


618 


OUlt    FAMILIAR    SOXGS. 


BLUE  BONNETS  OVER  THE  BORDER. 


SIR  WALTER  SCOTT  founded  this  song,  which  first  appeared  in  his  novel  "The 
Monastery,"  upon  an  old  one  called  "General  Leslie's  March  to  Long-Marston  Moor/r 
which  appeared  in  Allan  Eamsay's  "Tea-Table  Miscellany"  marked  as  ancient  and  of 
unknown  origin.  It  furnishes  so  good  an  example  of  the  way  in  which  Scott,  Burns,  and 
other  Scottish  poets  built  up  fine  songs  from  poor  shreds  of  material,  that  I  copy  it : 

March,  march,  why  the  deil  dinna  yc  march? 

Stand  to  your  arms,  my  hds,  fight  in  good  order  I 
Front  about,  ye  musketeers  all, 
Till  ye  come  to  the  English  Border. 

Stand  till't  and  fight  like  men, 

True  gospel  to  maintain ; 
The  Parliament's  blythe  to  see  us  a-coming. 

When  to  the  kirk  we  come, 

We'll  purge  it  ilka  room 
Fra  Popish  relics  and  a'  sic  innovation, 

That  a'  the  world  may  see 

There's  nane  in  the  right  but  we 
Of  the  auld  Scottish  nation. 


Jenny  shall  wear  the  hood, 
Jockie  the  sark  of  God  ; 
And  the  kist  fu'  o'  whistles  that  mak's  sic  a  cleiro, 
Our  piper  braw 
Shall  hae  them  a' 
Whate'er  come  on  it  : 
Busk  up  your  plaids,  my  lads, 
'in                                             Cock  up  your  bonnets. 

Q  *r  /*    i                       i  ^     f'^     ^     t        i,^ 

AMT       "                                    «f                                          «f                               -      -\         -                                                     V                 - 

K        K          S        S      -N 

(TO  "8    •        ±  •        7    1  0       *  0    —  1  M-*-. 

**    •      i    r*    r^ 

March!           March!              Ett-rick    and     Te  -    viot  -  dale,  Why 

0  0  *'  *  0  0  

,   my    lads,    din  -  na    ye  march 

/LiLfi     i_  9_  9  —  _J_  ^   ^       '   —^  9                    _„<  .  __  j 

•f          ' 
i           \ 

P  \          r*          ,N              i" 

y*^          1    7    *?              *7    ?     1    ^        ?f        *?                           ? 

H 

7           t                         .        _ 

Jt  ff  f  0  •  1  jj  1  p  1—  |  1  1  ^— 

_        _^__,_p  •—  b— 

(m—  U    ^  -£    *     0—-m     "  0     "—{-0         '    0    4— 

4^-L  J    3     >    ±      J 

for  -ward  in    or  -  der?  March!  march!         Esk-dale  and  Lid  -dea  -dale,  All     the  blue  bonnets    are 

)f_  tl                                                               ij~if  1  —  *f  *>  —                  Sf  1  

r                      M        ,            ~* 

fc^      '              ?2       0000 

—  t-  J               7    —|  ' 

\^*^     ~^*    *           *         ~^"                 ^  

r«  *  1 

^3__         —  ^  —  «  —          i_^.§p_j_i7-3_           —  ^_ 

—  1  0  — 

N  —  —  0  —                            -L-*  —     —  0  '-*  —            —  *  — 
n  A                                        Fine. 

r~i  :  N  ^  —  N  —  i 

^k    j  ^    «r  *    J      !  II  '    *    P    *    ^     '  \       *  ?    0      "  --i  i 

fl.  Ma  -  ny        a       ban-  ner  spread,  flut    -  ters    a   -  bove    your  head 
o    -    ver   the      bor  -  der.  <  2.  Come  from  the    hills  where  vour    hir   -   sels   are    graz       -       ing, 
(  3.  Trumpets    are        sound  -    wig,     war    steeds  are    bound   -       ing, 
_n_«  —  .  d,__  —  .  _  —  ,  ,  , 

~K7'                    —  f  -"—"•••'  ~                        —  *i  —                   —  «j  — 

i  s  =  — 

cm  0  1  ^  0.—  \_0  1  0  1  1 

i  0  — 

»       4                          -»-        ^        *                         ^ 

i              1                             ^H           J                            1 

*  

1                           1 

V  2__  j_        -5  —  |  ix  II  J  —            —  j— 

j  .j  ,  

BLUE  BONNETS  OVER    THE  BORDER. 


519 


ijUf  —  f>  —  f-  «...    rf'    j?    r=j 

-  T  t    ?—  1=? 

Ma  -  uy       a       crest    that    is        fa  -  mous   in       sto    -  ry 
Come  from    the    glen        of    the    buck    and     the        roe  ; 
Stand   to     your    arms,          and    march  in     good     or  -    der 

Z±2  —        ^  —  —  ^  ^_J 

;  Mount  and  make    read-    y,     then, 
Come     to       the      crag  where  the 
;  Eng  -land    shall     many    a       day 

JL  —  J  7  Jj  3  — 

—  ^  7  !*•'  —  '  i  ' 

_I3  ,  _U  if— 

11   J                                          1                      — 

\                  \ 

f~y*TL       *1 

9                         *- 

•j                               4 

-       J       —  -  —  1  Ei 

if  0  £_ 

—  —m                 .     -m  

(I 


sons       of  the      mountain  glen,  Fight      for  your    Queen  and    the     old    Scott- ish     glo    -    ry. 
bea  -  con   is       blaz      -   ing,    Come    with   the      buck  -  ler,    the    lance   and    the       bow. 
tell         of  the    blood   -  y  fray,  When     the  blue      bon  -  nets    came     o  •   ver     the     bor   -  der. 


—9- 


I 


THE  SOLDIER'S   RETURN. 

ONE  summer  evening  BURNS  was  sitting  with  two  friends  in  the  inn  at  Brown  Hill, 
•when  seeing  a  way-worn  soldier  pass  the  door,  he  called  him  in,  and  got  him  to  relate  his 
adventures.  The  recital  resulted  in  the  production  of  this  song,  after  a  fit  of  the  abstrac- 
tion which  always  preceded  Burns's  composition. 

Mr.  Thomson  having  written  that  he  should  get  Sir  William  Allan  to  paint  a  picture 
for  the  song,  Burns  wrote  to  him :  "As  to  the  point  of  time  for  the  expression  in  your 
proposed  print  of  my  '  Sodger's  Keturu/  it  must  certainly  be  at  '  she  gazed,  she  reddened 
like  a  rose.'  The  interesting  dubiety  and  suspense  taking  possession  of  her  countenance, 
and  the  gushing  fondness,  with  a  mixture  of  roguish  playfulness  in  his,  strike  me  as  things 
of  which  a  master  will  make  a  great  deal." 

The  name  of  the  old  air  of  this  song  is  "  The  Mill,  Mill  0."    It  is  found  in  the  <• 
Manuscript,"  written  in  the  beginning  of  the  last  century. 


1   When  wild    war's  dead  -  ly     blast  was  blawn,  And   gen  -  tie      peace    re   -turn    -    ing,    Wi' 
2!      A     leal      light  heart    beats   in      my  breast,  My   hands  un  -  stain'd  wi'     plu 

y- 


=4— i— -* 


KllM'j   i'lV        ilUIlUa       I 


J-J- 


520 


OUK    FAMILIAR    SONGS. 


mony     a    sweet    babe     fa  -  ther  -less,      And    mo  -    ny    a    wi  -    dow    mourn    -   ing ;  I 

for       fair  Sco   -   tia      hame    a  -  gain,        I        chee  -  ry         oil        did      wan       -  der.  I- 


— *-. — ' — i—- m • — =i s*— 

-*-£- .J=|-:._;_3_ 


left     the    lines      and   tent-ed    field,        Where  lang    I'd    been     a         lodg        -    er; 
tho't     up  -on        the  banks   o'    Coil,  I    thought  up  -  on       my       Nan       -    cy; 


My 


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hum  -    ble    knap  -  sack 
thought  up  -    on       the 


a'        my 
witch-  in' 


wealth,      A 
smile,     That 


poor    and 
caught  my 


hon  -  est 
youth-ful 


sodg 
fan 


-    er. 
-      cy. 


At  length  I  reach'd  the  bonnie  glen 

Where  early  life  I  sported; 
I  pass'd  the  mill  and  trystin'  thorn 

Where  Nancy  oft  I  courted. 
Wha  spied  I  but  my  ain  dear  maid 
Down  by  her  mother's  dwelling ! 
And  turned  me  round  to  hide  the  flood 
That  in  my  een  was  swelling. 

Wi'  altered  voice,  quoth  I,  "Sweet  lass, 

Sweet  as  yon  hawthorn's  blossom ; 
Oh  !  happy,  happy  may  he  be 

That's  dearest  to  thy  bosom ! 
My  purse  is  light,  I've  far  to  gang, 

And  fain  wad  be  thy  lodger, 
I've  served  my  king  and  country  lang; 

Tak'  pity  on  a  sodger." 

Sae  wistfully  she  gazed  on  me, 

And  lovelier  was  than  ever; 
Quo'  she,  "  A  sodger  ance  I  lo'ed, 

Forget  him  shall  I  never! 
Our  humble  cot  and  hamely  fare. 

Ye  freely  shall  partake  it; 
That  gallant  badge,  the  dear  cockade, 

Vo're  welcome  for  the  sake  o't." 


She  gazed  — she  reddened  like  a  rose, 

Syne  pale  as  ony  lily ; 
She  sank  within  my  arms,  and  cried, 

"  Art  thou  my  ain  dear  Willie  ?  " 
"  By  Him  who  made  yon  sun  and  sky, 

By  Whom  true  love's  regarded, 
I  am  the  man !  and  thus  may  still 

True  lovers  be  rewarded. 

"  The  wars  are  o'er,  and  I'm  come  hame, 

And  find  thee  still  true-hearted; 
Though  poor  in  gear,  we're  rich  in  love, 

And  mair  we'se  ne'er  be  parted." 
Quo'  she,  "  My  grandsire  left  me  gowd, 

A  mailin'  plenish'd  fairly; 
Then  come,  my  faithfu'  sodger  lad, 

Thou'rt  welcome  to  it  dearly." 

For  gold  the  merchant  ploughs  the  main, 

The  farmer  ploughs  the  manor, 
But  glory  is  the  sodger's  prize, 

The  sodger's  wealth  is  honor. 
The  brave  poor  sodger  ne'er  despise, 

Nor  count  him  as  a  stranger; 
Remember  he's  his  country's  stay, 

In  day  and  hour  o'  danger. 


GAILY    THE    TROUBADOUR. 

GAILY  THE  TROUBADOUR. 
BOTH  the  words  and  the  music  of  this  song  were  made  by  THOMAS  HAYNES  BAYLY. 


521 


1.  Gai   -   ly     the    Trou-ba-  dour       touch'd      his   gui 

2.  She       for    the    Trou-ba-  dour          hope  -    less  -  ly 

3.  Hark !  'twas  the    Trou-  ba  -  dour        breath  -  ing  her 


tar, . . . 
wept,, 
name, 


When  he  was 
Sad  -  ly  she 
Un  -  der  the 


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bat  -  tle-ment 

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home 
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ly     he 

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war: 
slept  : 
came: 

Sing  -  ing  "  from  Pa  -  les  -  tine,       hith  -   er       I 
Sing  -  ing  "  in  search  of  thee,      would      I  might 
Sing  -  ing  "  from  Pa  -  les  -  tine,        hith  -    er       I 

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La  -  dye  love  ! 
Trou-  ba-  dour  I 
La  -  dye  love  ! 

-V—          —  *->•  1  9     '     • 

La-  dye  love  !       welcome       me  home." 
Trou-  ba-  dour  !     come  to        thy  home." 
La-  dye  love!       welcome       me  home." 

Sing  -  ing  '•  from 
Sing  -  ing  "  in 
Sing  -  ing  "  from 

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Pa  -  les  -  tine,    hith  - 

er      I     come,            La  -dye  love  I 
I  might  roam,          Trou-  ba-dour  ! 
er      I     come,            La  -dye  love  I 

La  -  dye  love  I   welcome 
Trou-  ba-dour  !  come  to 
La  -  dye  love  I   welcome 

—  ^rj^H 

me  home." 
thy  home." 
me  home." 

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522  OUR   FAMILIAR   SONGS. 

THE  MINSTREL'S   RETURN. 
THE  words  of  " The  Minstrel's  Return"  were  written  by  SIR  WALTER  SCOTT. 

Harmonized  by  Edward  S.  Camming*. 


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1.  The     min-strel's  return'd  from  the     war,        With    spir-  its     as  buoy  -  ant    as        air;            And 
2.  The     min-  strel  his  suit    warm-ly  press'd,     She  blush'd,  sigh'd,  and  hung  down  her  head  ;          Till 
3.  But    fame  call'd  the  youth  to    the     field,        His     ban  -  ner  waved  o  -ver   his     head;          He 

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thus     to     the   hap-py      youth        said:       "The      bu  -  gle  shall  part  us,  love,       nev   -    1-1  ,    My 
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bu  -  gle   no  more   calls  to      arms  ; 
bos  -  om   thy  pil-    low  shall      be; 
ceived  his    ex-  pir  -  ing     a  -    dieu  ; 

-P-     -P-  -f-  -P-     -*:  -P-     -P- 

A         sol  -  dier  no  more,  but     a        lov  -   er,           I 
Till     death  tears  thee  from  me    for  -    ev    -    er,        Still 
"  I        die,  while  my  coun  -  try    de  -  fend  -  ing,     With  a 

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kneel    to       the   pow'r    of    thy  charms!        Sweet    la  -   dy,    dear    la  -   dy,     I'm    thine,          I 
faith-  ful,     I'll      per  -  ish  with    thee."    "  Sweet    la  -    dy,    dear    la  -    dy,     I'm    thine,           I 
heart    to       my      la   -   dy  love     true."        "  O  Death  !"  then  she  sigh'd,  "  I        am    thine; 

I~L 

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v  /  —  |  —  —  v  —  v  —  '•  & 

—  h  —  i?  —  t^  —  t/  ^  •  i     r 

THE   MINSTREL'S  RETURN. 


523 


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bend       to      the       ma  -  gic     of 
bend       to      the       ma  -  gic     of 
tear       off     the       ros  -  es      of 

~*~      T"  '  "P"   "P"      "P"   "P" 

beau-ty;              Tho'    the      hel  -   met     and  ban  -   ner     are 
beau-ty;              Tho'    the      hel  -   met     and  ban  -  ner     are 
beau-ty;               For     the,   grave      of       my    he    -     ro       is 

p    E  •  —  ~  —  P  '•'  K  -T  -P-^-P  P  •  P 

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mine,                     Yet          love 
mine,                    Yet          love 
mine,                    He           died 

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calls        the           sol    -      dier 
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to         du      -     ty." 
to         du     -     ty." 
to         du      -     ty." 

f\     f            P-  v—H 

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9    \      k  P-  *  \\ 

THE  MINSTREL  BOY. 

«  THE  MINSTREL  BOY"  is  one  of  THOMAS  MOORE'S  "  Irish  Melodies."  "it  is  set  to  the 
-old  Irish  air  called  "  The  Moreen."  A  gentleman  who  had  often  heard  Moore  sing  his  own 
melodies,  one  evening  asked  him  to  copy  a  song  to  give  him.  "  Which  shall  it  be  f "  asked 
Moore,  and  when  the  gentleman  replied,  "The  Minstrel  Boy"— "Well,  I  think  it  is  about 
the  best  of  them,"  said  Moore. 


=f^i^£       =*= 


find him;      His 

un         -  der;     The 


fa    • 
harp 


ther's     sword      he    has      gird    -   ed        on,        And   his 
he       lov'd       ne'er         spoke       a    -   gain,     For     he 


OUB  FAMILIAR   S 


/ 


wild 
tore 


harp        slung        be  -       hind 
its        chorus         a     -      sun 


"Land     of       song!"  said    the 

And   said,    "No     chains  shall 


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sword,      at     least,    thy      rights  shall  guard,  One       faith    -  ful    harp       shall    praise       thee  1" 
songs   were  made   for  the  pure   and    free,  They  shall  nev    -  er     sound         in    slav  -  er  -  yl" 


TENTING  ON  THE  OLD  CAMP  GROUND. 

WALTER  KITTREDGB  was  born  in  the  town  of  Merriinack,  Hillsboro  Co.,  New  Hamp- 
shire, October  8,  1832.  His  father  was  a  farmer,  and  Walter  was  the  tenth  of  eleven 
children.  His  education  was  received  at  the  common  school.  He  showed  a  strong 
predilection  for  music  at  a  very  early  age,  but  never  had  a  teacher  in  that  art.  He  says  in 
one  of  his  letters :  "  My  father  bought  one  of  the  first  seraphines  made  in  Concord,  N.  H., 
and  well  do  I  remember  when  the  man  came  to  put  it  up.  To  hear  him  play  a  simple 
melody  was  a  rich  treat,  and  this  event  was  an  important  epoch  in  my  child  life."  Kittredge 
began  giving  ballad  concerts  alone  in  1852,  and  in  1856  in  company  with  Joshua 
Hutchinson,  of  the  well  known  Hutchinson  family.  In  the  first  year  of  the  civil  war  he 
published  a  small,  original,  Union  song-book.  In  1862  he  was  drafted,  and  while  preparing 


TENTING    ON    THE    OLD    CAMP   GROUND.  r>25 

to  go  to  the  front,  he  wrote  in  a  few  minutes  both  words  and  music  of  "  Tenting  on  the 
Old  Camp  Ground."  Like  so  many  other  good  things  in  literature  and  art,  this  song  was 
at  first  refused  publication;  but  an  immense  popularity  sprang  at  once  from  the  author's 
own  rendering  of  it,  so  that  a  Boston  publisher  employed  somebody  to  write  a  song  with  a 
similar  title,  and  in  no  long  time  the  Messrs.  Ditson  brought  out  the  original.  Its  sale  has 
reached  the  hundred  thousands,  and  it  is  still  selling.  Mr.  Kittredge  has  written  numerous 
other  songs.  He  spends  his  winters  in  travelling  and  singing  with  Joshua  Hutchinson, 
and  his  summers  at  his  pleasant  home  of  Pine  Grove  Cottage,  near  Reed's  Ferry, 
New  Hampshire. 

„    u  By  permission  of  Messrs.  Oliver  Ditson  &  Co. 


4Mw-4r  —  -N—  N+»  f  — 

-P  IN,  1  H                         -,          •>     --T  "-» 

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1.      We're      tent  -    ing    to  -  night     on    the    old  camp  ground,           Give  us        a    song          to 
2.  We've  been  tent  -    ing    to  -  night     on    the    old  camp  ground,          Thinking     of  days        gone 
3.    We  are    tired               of    war       on    the    old  camp  ground,           Ma  -  ny      are   dead         and 
4.  We've  been  flght  -   ing    to  -  day       on    the    old  camp  ground.           Ma  -  ny      are     ly    -       ing 

n     U 

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cheer                           Our           wea-ry              hearts,         a        song              of    home,       And 
by,                            Of   the    lov'd  ones       at  home        that     gave       us   the    hand,       And  the 
gone,                          Of   the    brave             and  true       who've    left            their  homes, 
near;                                          Some              are  dead,        and      some             are      dy-ing, 

/  3L*$    J  '  *     -  jj-     t 

:.-^          £=       j_     |^     —  J_     : 

i      * 

r^'  * 

J_                                         J 

* 

\pi|r  3     £    -j    £ 

»—                 —  a  — 

£      i_  J  ] 

CHORUS. 


friends  we    love       so      dear. 

tear  that  said    "good  bye  !" 

Oth  -  ers  been  wound-  ed       long. 
Ma  -  ny  are        in      tears. 


Ma  -  ny      are      the    hearts  that    are 


f~$  ~  1 

^          -  — 

1-=, 

_ 

i  • 

iS 

! 

i  —  |*  — 

2           S 
v           1 

j 

j 

526 


OUR   FAMILIAR   SONGS. 


wr  ff~    ~s       1"           h       i         1         f      "^      _£_    .^      ~! 

^-         -^=— 

wea  -  ry          to  -  night,            Wish  -  ing     for     the     war            to 

Q.Jt  ft     f  •—    —  f  f—         —  T-»  »  •  *  £—           "*"     i 
^/7ftgff     £         »           -^»         •            i 

-*  :  —  H 

cease, 
i                                           ~i 

8  y  .  ..     |_               [x          j..                    1  f        ^*          1          2          If    •             f 

U      U      '/      L^      1           U 

1  1 

ps~;      * 

"F  *            '   * 

—  fr  —  *  J  *  0  

-^  4  0  *  —  J 

Ma-ny    are   the  hearts  looking  for       the  right,         To    see       the  dawn      of    peace. 


-0 • 0- 


=t 


^- 


m 


v     v 


* 


t — *-=£=£= 

Tent  -  ing       to  -  night,  Tent  -  ing        to  -  night,  Tent  -  ing      on      the      old     camp 

last  v.  Dy  -  ing       to  -  night,  Dy  -  ing        to  -  night,          (Omit.) 

0m 

r — r=f= 


E3EE£ 


U—  -  u 


w 


A+±, 


^is^t^.: 


=P 

=^<2 


-*-*- 


NG  ON  THE  OLD  CAMP  GROUND. 


527 


THE  SOLDIER'S   DREAM. 
THIS  exquisite  song  of  THOMAS  CAMPBELL'S  was  set  to  music  by  THOMAS  ATTWOOD. 


r\         f 

"f  —  f^T~J  —  r^?1 

0*0. 

gr-J  ^  ^~  | 

i)-^-+- 

&          ok 

bu  -  gles  sung  truce,  for  the  n 

1  1 

ight-cloud  had  lower'd,  And  the 

1  1  -  

sen  -  ti-  nel    stars     set  their 
I     N,      J      J       ,  1 

-^g— 

--—  J  i 

i  R  

.n  i.  a   ^ 

9}              jc\     '(**•                                      ^n   "^i     ^B          ** 

P                        v  -jp  -j-     -, 

^ 

IV  f*    I  ^        **1 

J                    •* 

—3      *   *i  i*        ^  ' 

^  1  '—  

-JS.  

a                   m        * 

k       C  T  —  *  : 

Larghetto. 


it  —  f    T'  i*  l~=r~ 

-f-*—m—          s    -  s- 

~^      —  F^ 

*    |    N    N 

N^: 

fm            L     y    '      t; 

v                  m        PR 

*  •    *^  *•    \ 

•j.    1       \                   m 

*••  • 

LMJ       1        '       p               • 

L'            m  •    m 

\                                  V 

$m  9    9    • 

watch  in     the  sky,  And  t 

tiousands  had  sunk  on   the  •. 

ground  o-verpower'd,The 

^*      J            J     X 

wea-ry  to  sleep,  and  the 

x     1     -t-H  

13*  —  g  ^  |»  ^  —  1^—  ^  — 
/7S 
f        ~0'                ~^~ 
&£  —  \j  ~i  ^  —  =i  —  r  —  ^  — 

g 

sens 

1       '4     ^ 

^ 

r 

LsJ  ^_ 

«i 

Andante  moderate. 


J>,  :  N,  \_ 

—  f  M 

—  t  —      —  jr~-  —  K~" 

-M  — 

^  1  N  R~ 

wound  -  ed       to  die  ;  When    re  -   pos  -  in. 

—  F  —  ^  b 

—I/  —  |  V 

I  that  night     or 
Dolce. 

—  if  " 

• 
i  my 

^— 

E»  —  J    j     J.^..-A- 

pal  -  let         of  straw,  By      the 
—z\  1      |      |         I      _•*_ 

^t^=^ 

— 

P3F= 

_—  -^ 
V  1 

r~^  

^     3=r.    ~9      "         ~'  ~       -    :  1 

y  -j.  1 

528 


OUlt   FAMILIAR    SONG  IS. 


dead   of  the  night   a     sweet    vis-ion        I  saw,  And  thrice  ere  the  morning  I  dreamt  it     a-gain.  Me- 


-I  -  N 


to* 


Agitato. 


thought, 


from  the      bat 


tie  field's 


}  Ptd. 


Fed. 


m^^m^ 


THE   SOLDIERS  DEE  AM. 


529 


m 


^m 


far 


I  had  roani'd 


on    a  des 


o  -  late     track,  'Twas 


m 


f>f> 


^-r^ 


F^^F 


T^PPE 


* 


Moderate  dolce. 


Autumn,  and  sunshine  a  -  rose  on  the  way  To  the  home  of  my  fathers  that  welcomed  me  back ;    I 


Htf  IM  J 


Mm 


4-^- 


-J-srtt 
^^^nt 


-i — i — • 


AUtretto, 


:5 


flew        to  the  pleas-  ant  fields,  traversed      so     oft  In       life's  morning  march      when  my 


*  Fed 


* 


bo-som     was    young; 


I         heard    my  own  mount- ain  goats       bleat-ing    a -loft,        And 
8va. 

X 


(84) 


530 


OUR  FAMILIAR  SONGS. 


knew       the        sweet     strain 


that  the      corn  -   reap   -     ers         sung. 


knew  the  sweet  strain          that  the 

•TfWf 


corn  -    reap  -    ers         sung. 


-, — r     p     i    *£      it 

I    I        E      'C 


K 


Allegretto. 


£= 


^^ 


^ 


flew        to  the  pleas  -  ant  fields,  traversed     so    oft  In       life's  morning  march      when  my 


THE  SOLDIER'S  DREAM. 


531 


bo-som      was    young ; 


I         heard    my  own  mouut-  ain  goats       bleat-ing    a  -  loft,        And 
8va. 


-P & B* 


knew       the        sweet     strain  that  the     corn  -   reap   -     ers        sung, 


And 


jEEgEEilE    i^^^^ 


/ 


' — v- 


knew 


the  sweet  strain          that  the  corn   -    reap  -    ers         sung. 


V  *  o 


Then 


^^ 


Pitt  moto. 


Lento. 


1   0                    ,                             K              j 

<»   *  —  f.—  *N*   ~  g   g— 

=f=^= 

pledged  we     the  wine-  cup,    and 

_^  ^        <  ±q  p  —  P  *—  - 
fond-ly        I    swore    From  my   home 

_K  ^  ^  ^  ^~ 

and  my    weep-  iug  friends 

-f  —  =r-f  —  c  i  i     F:* 

F—  r       |jn 

-T  —  HH*  —  EC 

L-^—     p    p     t^ 

£—-•       __2- 

-^  —  *—    —  »q 

EL_£  —  -1   ,,    I,--  —  3L 

?  n"~ 

-f  \r-       -$-* 

532 


OUR  FAMILIAR   SONGS. 
Piu  moto.    §  R 


Lento. 


U_  0  —         —  0  ==^  —  0— 

f  •  ^5  —  f 

»  o'^l!     P- 

»  •  ^o*  —  »  •  ^  —  *^j 

nev  -  er         to        part,  My 

J)    J    .    J    J  —  -=< 

«w  f  p  V  K  U— 
lit   -     tie  ones  kiss'd      me      a 

thou  -  sand  times   o'er,     And  my 

n^T™ 

<!  •  —  ^—  < 

1  —  J     f   . 

- 

FM=         =F 

J    J 

1  —  1  —  J—  J 

:  1 

=  —  H  —  i  —  ?E  3 

»         » 

9    •                    0           0    •         ~         0           0    •         -         0           0 
f-                     f-          -                        •          *•                      *           - 

-T     cJ  ^jl    — 

4P  si  P 

'          r                       r 

-SP      «  —  P  —  r—     M 

^^J  — 

JUT  =1  

:  b  ^  b  — 

=E  —  *  —  b  —  F  =»  

espressione. 


2L"   ~2r    r       r                       L_T 

r  p      j 

-  r,       r    -      p  •    &    r    H 

frh      S     b       b       v  -     v       S 

HZ        ••       V         V         *                    *S 

w                   <£_                  '"^^^fc 

9^ 

wife  sobb'd  a  -  loud      in        her 

*•              J~J     -^         ^-1 

full-  ness       of    heart.  "  Stay, 

I/          r 
stay   with  us,     rest,  thou  art 

r—  ^  N  ^  ^—  , 

3F  =1  S*  •—      Vspa  b5- 

18     *i      ^      ^    *i  i 

—}  *  d  9.  =|  1  — 

fm            ^       f       «HS 

-12                frj          i 

33        i               4 

^  \)            j»       »            '           w 

0           0^0'           0i 

J           ,f                            / 
i*       i*      T"             ^2 

Qi 

f^:  =•  1  1  1  =—=  1  

p-                    (• 

__.  1 

\££  —                       —  *  3      —  yt  — 

->  ^  f  b  =*-=!- 

—\  

7£~                 J^P!                                                   J          JP 

J               K      J          «  !                  N    "I 

fn\j-»                     Ultt««      «      *'r 

9    •      JJ^1      X 

KM     *             *      *         "ILW*»                           L 

j    i 

3                                               3S 

wea  -    ry    and    worn  ;"  And       fain    was     the     war  -  brok-  en       sol   -  dier    to      stay,        But 

/L.           \                                 l^^llj'                           ~"VJ 

J                        J 

1  S?  

\§n  J'*J  —                   ^vJ  r^S  —  •  4 



3    3T!           ^;          ^           ^ 

• 
L 

*1                      *1 

H-K  I^ 

•1 

V                           1 

t.'                             5 

Ed  
V              ^ 

/ 

Ritard  e  dim. 


J-  J^  J^-J^ 


:£- 


< B U U 


sor  -  row       re-turn'd  with    the    dawn  -  ing  of    morn,    And  the  voice     in      my   dream-  ing  ear 


THE   SOLDIER'  S  DREAM. 


533 


melt  -    ed      a   -    way 


melt  -    ed      a    - 


way, melt  -  ed        a  -    way, 


THE  CAPTIVE  KNIGHT. 

THE  words  of  "  The  Captive  Knight "  were  written  by  MRS.  HEMANS,  and  the  music 
was  composed  by  her  sister,  MRS.  ARKWRIGHT.  The  music  was  very  popular,  as  the  stir- 
ing  march  of  the  approaching  army  was  given,  and  an  interlude  which  imitated  the  distant 
sounds  of  its  heavy  tread,  before  the  plaintive  words  were  sung,  "They  are  gone !  They 
lave  all  passed  by,"  &c.  The  poem  was  suggested  to  the  author  by  Scott's  lines  in  "  The 
Lady  of  the  Lake  " : 

The  prisoned  thrush  may  brook  the  cage. 
The  captive  eagle  dies  for  rage. 

N  ^  animate. 


1.  'Twas    a  trum -pet's       peal  -   ing  sound! 

I  knew  'twas  a  trum -pet's  note! 

3.  I     am  here    withmyhea  -    vy  chain! 

4.  Must     I  pine       in  my   fet  -   ters  here? 


And  the  knight  look'd  down    from    the 

And       I  see         my      breth   -    ren's 

And       I  look        on    a   tor    -      rent 

With  the  wild    waves'    foam       and    the 


A 


Pay-  nim's  tow'r,  And    a      Chris-  tian  host,  in     its    pride     and  pow'r,  thro'    the 

lane  -     es     gleam,  And  their    pen  -  nons  wave  by    the  mount  -  ain  stream,  and    their 

sweep  -  ing         by,  And  an       ea    -    gle  rush  -     ing           to         the       skv,  and       a 

free     bird's  flight,  And  the      tall     spears  glanc  -      ing           on        my      sight,  and      the 


i 

-hr~ 

F£= 

r    k  " 

1    '        «l       .     «. 

'  T^  —  tT~ 

-  - 

i  .  .,  J  .,  f  „  j-| 

I 

L 

\ 

^         ] 

^ 

v 

N         S 

J    J 

H^n 

j  3.  j,  i.=j 

LJL_ 

j- 

-• 

/                    ^ 

1  —  • 

-3  • 

=3^- 

-'i  J  "^  ~* 

534 


OUR   FAMILIAR    SONGS. 
After  each  verse. 


pass     be  -  neath    him  wound.  ) 

plumes  to  the  clad  wind  float.    L     Cease           a -while, 

host      to  its  bat  -   tie  plain.   ( 

trum-pet         on      my  ear.    J 


J- 


- 


clar  -    ion      wild       and         shrill! 


Cease!    let    them  hear       the 


J     j 


tf^HHi  —  z2 

rr  —  r    f  r  — 

*  1 

I  

^f7    IT  

.M 

V* 

^     "^    '      ' 

cap   -    tive's        voice : —         Be          still  I 


Andante  espressivo. 


6.  They  are    gone  I  they  have  all  pass'd     by!        They     in  whose  wars     I    had    borne     my  part; 


1S11 


THE    CAPTIVE  KNIGHT. 


335 


Phey  that  I   loved  with  a        broth  -  er's      heart,  They  have    left       me    here      to       die! 


Soun(T a-  gain, clar 


Cla  -  rion,     pour      thy       blast! 


«     1 


(£2 


Sound!  for  the     capt  -  Ive's      dream      of        hope 


m 


past!' 


4         X- 


-4-        -4- 


THE   BATTLE    PRAYER. 

KARL  THEODORE  KORNER  was  born  in  Dresden,  September  23, 1791.  Schiller  and  other 
literary  men  were  constant  visitors  at  his  father's,  and  Koruer  early  showed  a  passion  for 
poetry.  He  joined  the  army  to  fight  the  French,  and  such  was  the  bravery  of  the  corps  in 
which  he  was  a  lieutenant,  that  in  a  succeeding  contest  Napoleon  laid  a  special  plan  for 
cutting  them  off.  On  the  morning  before  Korner's  first  battle,  he  composed  this  "Prayer." 
A  little  later,  while  waiting  in  a  wood  through  the  night,  watching  for  a  detachment  of  the 
French  troops,  he  composed  his  "  Sword  Song."  In  the  morning  they  received  the  ex- 
pected attack,  and  while  repulsing  and  pursuing  the  enemy,  Korner  was  exposed  to  the 
fire  of  both  sides,  and  fell  mortally  wounded.  His  "  Farewell  to  Life  "  is  said  to  have 
been  written  just  before  he  expired,  August  16,  1813. 

The  music  to  the  "  Battle  Prayer  "  is  the  composition  of  FRIEDRICH  HEINRICH  HIMMEL, 
who  was  born  in  Brandenburg,  Germany,  in  1765.  He  studied  theology  at  Halle,  but  aban- 
doned that  to  devote  himself  to  music.  He  was  a  reputed  son  of  Fredrick  William  II., 
whose  chapel-master  he  became.  He  composed  both  secular  and  sacred  music,  much  of 
which  is  still  popular  in  Germany. 


536 


OUR    FAMILIAR    SONGS. 


Alto  or  Tenor. 


4i           L                 '.j           &  • 
-            s        \S 

1.    Fa    -    ther,   on    Thee              I         call! 
1st.  Tenor. 

Dark    -    ly       the  clouds       of       the 

—  i  1  K  N<  1  N  K-^ 
f                                              '     ~*«  —  ~3  J  ^  —  1 

2.    Fa    -    ther,   be    Thou            my      guide!                       Lead       me         to    death        or        to 
2d.  Tenor. 

-g  \f~~f,  1  :  1-            •                                                                i       —  -tk-  It— 

i  1  K  jj— 

-N—  j 

O5^        A- 

*          -uJ            J            s 

-                   -                

v  \2       ~*          0                 w           &           0    *                  & 

In*                 »"•          * 

3.    Fa    -    ther,  Thy  pow'r            I         own! 
ist.  &  2d.  Bass.                                            | 

As          in        the   fall          of       the 
1              >          JJ                    N 

t~\*  i  fi         '             i          P                                   ^^  * 

1                 H                -\               P 

|                g       -\ 

I  •  i  I?  **           |                 |          0            i                      ;                ' 

i  4  —      ^  —  0 

9                  JP  *r~\ 

j?--4  *  0  0  1  -"  •  '^\  , 

*  ,  p  — 

1  tr-  3 

I                    ...  j,.  m                j  .   . 

•          9 

^zt=± 


_^_i. 


£SE£ 


-* — P*- 


+-  -ft- 


bat    -   tie      surround      me ;  Fierce  -  ly     the  sword    of     the       foe    flash  -  es  round  me. 


S2^1  _p..^_^_^=z  ElL^TZ;^E^==!;=*==2^==r-fnp-=-f=±rg=g=^=i 
^=g ^— ^==P ^=^4-^ '^ — ^=F — =g — pFf — * — P-+ — *- 

vie    -    to    -  ry    lead      me,  Wher-e'er     the  cause     of     my      coun-try   may  need  me. 

-fr— r m=^=l=  =*«=: 


leaves      in     the     for    -  est,  So    when    we  yield      to     the     war's     i  -    ron  tem-pest. 


1  -  •' 


•      ? 


~sz__ )~       [I 

—--&-; A         II 


God       of      the  bat    -    tie,  on    Thee       I     call,  Fa  -  ther,     be  thou     my  guide. 

_J         J— ^zj=  :rf—J-pp:          —      2E3^=  EgF1^^     ===PZF=:     zT=fl 
=3=3-^-^=^1=  ->—*-:  -^^-^i^j^^ 


Lord,  where  Thou  wilt,    but   be    Thou      my  guide,          Fa  -  ther,  Thy  pow'r     I    own! 


Foun  -  tain     of  glo    -   ry,  Thy  pow'r       I    own,  Fa  -ther,    Oh,  bless  Thy  son! 


Father,  oh  bless  Thy  son  ! 
Calmly  my  life  to  Thy  hand  I  deliver 
Be  Thou  its  Guardian  as  Thou  wast  its  giver, 
Living  or  dying,  yet  bless  Thy  son  ! 
Father,  for  this  I  pray. 


Father,  to  thee  I  pray, 

'Tis  for  no  treasures  of  earth  we're  contending, 
Holiest  of  rights  with  the  sword  we're  defending, 
Victor  or  vanquished,  to  thee  I  pray — 

Battling,  1  dare  to  pray. 


BINGEN   ON    THE    KHINE. 

BINGEN   ON  THE   RHINE. 


537 


THE  words  of  "Bingen  on  the  Rhine"  are  by  MBS.  CAROLINE  NORTON.  The  air  was 
composed  by  JTJDSON  HUTCHINSON,  of  the  well-known  Hutchinson  Family  of  singers.  He 
was  born  about  1817,  in  Milford,  New  Hampshire.  When  he  was  an  infant  his  mother 
observed  him  singing  the  old  tune  of  "  Greenville"  correctly.  When  but  a  lad,  he  earned 
enough  money,  by  raising  vegetables  on  his  father's  farm,  to  buy  himself  a  violin.  Fiddles 
in  those  days  were  looked  upon  as  the  direct  invention  of  the  evil  one,  and  Judson  was 
not  allowed  to  bring  his  treasure  to  the  light.  But  when  his  father  found  him  playing  two 
parts  upon  it,  and  accompanying  his  performance  with  his  melodious  voice,  his  musical 
soul  was  stirred,  and  the  fiddle  became  a  necessary  part  of  all  the  family  concerts.  His 
music  and  his  own  singing  of  Mrs.  Norton's  fine  lyric,  contributed  largely  to  render  the 
words  familiar.  Judson  Hutchinson  died  about  1855. 


lack       of       wo    -  man's  nursing,    there    was     dearth     of    woman's          tears ;          But        a 


comrade      stood       be  -  fore  him,     while      his      life-blood      ebb'd      a  -    way,  And 


538 


OUR    FAMILIAR    SONGS. 


$££-*     •  ,_-*-.,-[-,_,-.. 

'  j    -  \.  I,  i,       — H -j— H  j 


- 


bent    with    pi  -  ty  -  ing     glan-ces 


to      hear    what     he     might    say. 


The 


he     took     that  com  -  rade's  hand, 


S 


i 


-• *— 


said,     "I     nev  -  er  more    shall  see       my    own,     my    na  -  tive        land ;  Take      a 

=d=£=i= 


^ir)7—  ^ 

^=^^ 

_(•        0-.-.-. 

-  •«.    -1        ••* 

i  — 

f  ^  , 

9         \                     g 

r-f*^-^  , 

J~|         f         *         •                      '  M 

?Vfr 

*—     —  0  — 

=F  —  ^=-3 

- 

4=3t 


mes-sage         and        a        to-  ken         to       some    dis   -  tant  friends     of      mine;  For 


1 — 0 — 1_\  .0 . — j 

-*•          v-» : 


rit. 


3EE£ 


5E 


I  was    born        at       Bin  -  gen,       fair  Bin  -  gen,         on         the       Rhine." 


±=.   * * 


i^j       _  »^zn E 

— « 1 — 0        '.. 


BINGEN    ON    THE  RHINE. 


/»  — *m~ 

-!=?==    ?fe^ 


- 


hear      my    mourn  -  ful     sto-ry,        in       the       pleas  -  ant  vine    -    yard  ground,    That       we 


fought  the    bat-tie  brave-ly,  and when      the    day     was    done, 


Full 


ma  -ny    a   corse           lay    ghast    -     ly  pale       be  -  neath     the      set  -    ting    sun ;  And 

:±-b= I T-l *-. 


'midst     the  dead      and     dy  -  ing,       were  some    grown  old       in    wars, 


The 


540 


OUR   FAMILIAR   SONGS. 


death-wound    on         their    gal  -lant    breasts,  the     last       of    ma  -  ny       scars ; 


But 


S^^EE^S 


I_V i 1 "x^  '   0 0 -V— 

some    were  young   and     sud-  den     -    ly  be  -  held      life's  morn     de  -    cline,  An 

^-^— T 1 


? ^(fer-^^E 


f-yV- *- -0 0 j [      ^      — - 

gsg=jr-|         I        i . — j —        \ •        JL— 

\>  \J \j ^ i |      >j i_ _| 

*"  one       had   come  from         Bin  -gen,        from 


Biu  -   gen     on        the  Rhine. 


Bin       -     gen,  Bin   -       gen,  oh. 


Bingen     on      the  Rhine. 


•*,  ""^Tf~  : ~ 


-i-0-~ -j. — 


^ 3. 

A  soldier  of  the  Legion  lay  dying  in  Algiers, 

There  was  lack  of  woman's  nursing,  there  was  dearth  of  woman's  tears, 

But  a  comrade  stood  before  him,  while  his  life-blood  ebbed  away, 

And  bent  with  pitying  glances  to  hear  what  he  might  say. 

The  dying  soldier  faltered  as  he  took  that  comrade's  hand, 

And  he  said  "  I  never  more  shall  see  my  own,  my  native  land ; 

Take  a  message  and  a  token  to  some  distant  friends  of  mine ; 

For  I  was  born  at  Bingen,  fair  Bingen  on  the  Rhine. 

"  Tell  my  brothers  and  companions,  when  they  meet  and  crowd  around, 
To  hear  my  mournful  story,  in  the  pleasant  vineyard  ground, 
That  we  fought  the  battle  bravely,  and  when  the  day  was  done, 
Full  many  a  corse  lay  ghastly  pale  beneath  the  setting  sun ; 
And  'midst  the  dead  and  dying  were  some  grown  old  in  wars  — 
The  death-wound  on  their  gallant  breast,  the  last  of  many  scars ; 
But  some  were  young  and  suddenly  beheld  life's  morn  decline, 
And  one  had  come  from  Bingen.  from  Bingen  on  the  Rhine. 


BIN  GEN   ON    THE  RHINE.  54 ! 

"Tell  my  mother  that  her  other  sons  shall  comfort  her  old  age, 
And  I  was  still  a  truant  bird,  that  thought  his  home  a  cage ; 
For  my  father  was  a  soldier,  and  when  I  was  a  child 
My  heart  leaped  up  to  hear  him  tell  of  struggles  fierce  and  wild; 
And  when  he  died  and  left  us  to  divide  his  scanty  hoard, 
I  let  them  take  whate'er  they  would,  but  kept  my  father's  sword; 
And  with  boyish  love  I  hung  it  where  the  bright  light  used  to  shine 
On  the  cottage  wall  at  Bingen,  at  Bingen  on  the  Rhine. 

"  Tell  my  sister  not  to  weep  for  me,  and  sob  with  drooping  head 
When  the  troops  are  marching  home  again,  with  glad  and  gallant  tread ; 
But  look  upon  them  proudly,  with  a  calm  and  steadfast  eye, 
For  her  brother  was  a  soldier,  and  not  afraid  to  die. 
And  if  a  comrade  seek  her  love,  I  ask  her  in  my  name 
To  listen  to  him  kindly,  without  regret  or  shame, 
And  to  hang  the  old  sword  in  its  place  (my  father's  sword  and  mine), 
For  the  honor  of  old  Bingen,  dear  Bingen  on  the  Rhine. 

"  There's  another,  not  a  sister,  in  the  happy  days  gone  by 
You'd  have  known  her  by  the  merriment  that  sparkled  in  her  eye ; 
Too  innocent  for  coquetry,  too  fond  for  idle  scorning  — 
Oh  !  friend,  I  fear  the  lightest  heart  makes  sometimes  heaviest  mourning! 
Tell  her  the  last  night  of  my  life  —  for  ere  the  moon  be  risen 
My  body  will  be  out  of  pain,  my  soul  be  out  of  prison  — 
I  dreamed  I  stood  with  her,  and  saw  the  yellow  sunlight  shine 
On  the  vine-clad  hills  of  Bingen,  fair  Bingen  on  the  Rhine. 

"  I  saw  the  blue  Rhine  sweep  along,  I  heard  or  seemed  to  hear 
The  German  songs  we  used  to  sing,  in  chorus  sweet  and  clear, 
And  down  the  pleasant  river,  and  up  the  slanting  hill, 
The  echoing  chorus  sounded  through  the  evening  calm  and  still; 
And  her  glad  blue  eyes  were  on  me,  as  we  passed  with  friendly  talk, 
Down  many  a  path  beloved  of  yore,  and  well  remembered  walk. 
And  her  little  hand  lay  lightly,  confidingly  in  mine  — 
But  we'll  meet  no  more  at  Bingen  —  loved  Bingen  on  the  Rhine." 

His  voice  grew  faint  and  hoarser,  his  grasp  was  childish  weak, 
His  eyes  put  on  a  dying  look,  he  sighed  and  ceased  to  speak. 
His  comrade  bent  to  lift  him,  but  the  spark  of  life  had  fled ; 
The  soldier  of  the  Legion  in  a  foreign  land  was  dead. 
And  the  soft  moon  rose  up  slowly,  and  calmly  she  looked  down 
On  the  red  sand  of  the  battle-field,  with  bloody  corpses  strewn. 
Yea,  calmly  on  that  dreadful  scene  her  pale  light  seemed  to  shine, 
As  it  shone  on  distant  Bingen,  fair  Bingen  on  the  Rhine ! 


THE   HEATH  THIS   NIGHT. 

"  THE  Heath  this  night  must  be  my  bed,"  is  the  song  of  Norman  in  SCOTT'S  "  Lady  of 
the  Lake."  Several  airs  have  been  written  for  the  song,  but  I  think  the  one  that  follows  is 
the  work  of  Joseph,  Count  Mazzinghi.  This  distinguished  composer  was  born  in  England 
in  1760.  His  mother  was  English,  but  his  father  was  descended  from  an  ancient  Tuscan 
family.  He  developed  musical  ability  so  early,  that  he  became  director  of  the  opera  house 
•when  but  eighteen  years  old,  and  he  once  restored  the  orchestral  parts  of  a  lost  opera  of 
Paeisiello's  from  memory.  His  own  operas—"  Paul  and  Virginia,"  "  The  Bund  Girl,"  "  The 
Turnpike  Gate,"  &c.,  were  very  popular,  and  Scott  thanked  him  warmly  for  the  manner  in 
which  he  adapted  several  of  his  lyrics.  Mazziughi  died  in  1844. 


OUR   FAMILIAR    SONGS. 


mor  -  row  eve'         more      stil   -  ly    laid,       My 
fond       re-gret        must      Nor  -man  know;  When 
if  re  -  turned     from     conquered  foes,    How 


THE  HEATH    THIS   NIGHT. 


cres. 


543 


couch      may    be  my 

bursts    clan     Al    -     pine 
blithe    -  ly     will          the 


blood    -    y     plaid, 
on  the      foe, 

eve     -    ning  close, 


My 
His 
How 


ves    -      per      song....         thy 

heart     must       be like 

sweet       the       lin       -          net 


gWrtf-. 

ritard                    a  tempo. 

—  ^ffifc-*^  ^1=2--?- 

^r—  ^  —  i 

•  ' 

»'    f     S*    "W  ~m  —       "'  '  II 

~j*-  ^**W  ^~ 

wail,        swee 

u     LJ    j 

t    maid!         It          will          not 

wak       -  en 

bend    -     ed 

bow,          His         foot         like 

ar        -    row 

free,  Ma-ry! 

sing            re 

-   pose,         To         my         young 

bride         and 

me  Ma-ry! 

-en-f^*     ^ 

y  i-Z—  1?»  •          .j? 
<mP  —  -•  —       —  «- 

-rffl        f      *~     +•         X 

galWfc  &=ti          :g- 

M  =*^ 

_s_?_^=i2.ZIZS£^^ 

^—^r=^p 
^±  \tt    . 

-^sJ-'-^-L^  —  *- 

a  tempo.  A.    V 

-qs—  i  1?~     -?- 

—  _.  IE  *~ 

*i 
1^*1 

^  •^> 

f  7  

^-r^rHM^ 

p 

—  •—  i  {£  ;  — 

•* 

-J  |P^ 

( 

\55 


THE  WOUNDED  HUSSAR. 

THE  words  of  this  song  were  written  by  THOMAS  CAMPBELL,  and  the  music  was  com- 
posed by  D.  C.  HEWITT,  a  Scotsman  by  birth,  whose  musical  career  has  been  principally  in 
London,  where  he  settled  in  1819.  He  wrote  a  valuable  work  on  musical  harmony. 

John  Black,  the  well-known  editor,  in  a  letter  to  Dr.  Charles  Mackay,  under  date  of 
June  25,  1852,  says:  "Your  friend,  Tom  Campbell,  affected  to  be  annoyed  when  his 
'Wounded  Hussar'  superseded  every  other  ballad  in  the  streets  of  Edinburgh,  something 
more  than  fifty  years  ago." 

poco  lento. 


1.  A       -    lone    on    the  banks  of    the      dark    rolling   Danube,    Fair 

2.  From  his   bo-  som  that  heav'd  the  last     tor-rent  was  streaming,  And 
3."Thon  slialt  live"  she  replied,  "Heaven's  mer  -  cy   re  -  liev-ing,    Each 


A   -   de-laide  hied  when  the 

pale    \v;is    his    vis-  age,  deep 
an  -guishing  wound  shall  for- 


w 

H-t- 

-^ 

—  f— 

•» 

-g  

m 

—•—*— 

*  1 

-1       ~ 

—  f—  rtf  —  «  —  f  — 

5     I 

—  L- 

9          7 

if       "9       f    • 

~~i 

™ 

1 

u 

_    •       0 

\j      *              v 

bat  -  tie 
mark'd  with 
bid      me 

-»  j— 

was 
a 
to 

o'er, 
scar, 
mourn 

-j  

"Oh,  whith 
And  dim 
,"  "Oh   no, 

^_    4f 

•  er" 
was 
the 

she  cried, 
that,    eye, 
last  pang 

"hast  thou  wander'd, 
once      ex  -press  -ive 
in      my   bo  -   gom 

my 

-  Iv 
is 

lov  -  er,           Or 
braining.         That 
heav-insr.         No 

—  2  

2_£- 

* 

9"   ' 

—  *  — 

9 

A 

•    ,_    r 

— 

_i  1  

544 


OUR   FAMILIAR    SONGS. 


fe=l 

i*~f  *£ 

5 

0    *  "—  ^ 

:  •  ••  td  -  0 
—  i*~~p*  — 

7    <* 

-' 

1 

4:;       ^     -^-H 

) 

J 

;          £ 

0  •    0 

where    dost  thou  wel  -ter       and    bleed     on    the  shore?     What  voi 
melt  -   ed     in    love  or       that       kin  -died   in    war;        How   sm 
light      of     the  morn  shall      to       Hen  -  ry     re  -  turn  ;      Thou  cha 

~,                          "^"                        ~fc_ 

-Of                                ~ar                                   -r—                                *• 

ce     h 
t      \v 
rm  -  < 

—  r^ft' 

ive     J    heard?  'twas  mv 
as    fair    A    -     de  -  laioe'8 

?r       of    life        ev  -    er 

•    '» 

~&  

m  

Z*                          i 

•f    1  •» 

1 

9  * 

«f  — 

—  s 

-i--is^^- 

=s  s  s  •• 

»  

—  s— 

/L\?  - 

;    t 

—  ^£_ 

3  —    —  a  —  0—\-* 

•      *  EEfi 

-  —  1_ 

_*, 

\~*  —  — 

--**<  — 

*   .. 

*?      -H 

Hen  -  ry's  that  sigh'd."        All       mournful  she      hasten'd  nor 
heart     at    the  sight,         How       bit  -   ter  she    wept  o'er  the 
ten  -  der   and  true,           Ye       babes   of    my     love  that    a  - 

<Xi_                                                                  *                                                                              -*—  = 

*       *      *     5-             »     fi 

waoder'd     she  fur.            When 
vie  -  tim      of  war.         "Hast  thou 
wait    me      a  -  far."          His 

'  —^  v  ~ 

—  ^-j  |J—  .             r  m  

b 

9         r 

•  i    ;    ^  •  ' 

*              ~          **      0 

•  

3  .  i    • 

-0  

—  0  —  n 

=zc    •,  —  i  

^ 

—  N— 

4  r*  —  sr 

9 

'—  0 

^~                      =s-f^ 

b 
c 
fj 

A  :  — 
t,       ~^A 

^-T_*_ 

h—  :  »— 

t.  

>     ^ 

•=»     '•   ^  ' 

}*.                                                        FT 
leed  -  ing    and  low        on     the    heath    she      descried      By   the 
ame,  my  fond  love,     this    last      sor  -  row  -  ful  night,    To 
lit  -    er  -  ing  tongue  scarce  could  mur  -  mur      a  -  dieu,    Then  he 

light 
cheer 
sank 

of    the    moon,  her  poor 
the    lone  heart     of  your 
in     her    arms  —  the  poor 

Q-,  —  f  ..  ...  i 

Z  n     T            ' 



S      *     3      *-     3 

-i 

0 

-?      -       3 

^         -V 

1  *     *     *                  i 

__j_  1  J 

lpEd§3  —  7— 

wound-ed      Hus  • 
wound-ed      Hus- 
wound-ed      Hus  - 

•0- 

sar,       By     the 
sar,       To 
sar,     Then     he 

light     of       the  mooi 
cheer    the     lone  hear 
sank      in       her    arms 

b 

i    he 

b      c 
—  tl 

r    poor 
f     your 
le    poor 

—  

wound  - 
wound  - 
wound 

•0- 

ed      Hussar, 
ed     Hussar?" 
•  ed      Hussar. 

fy  -  — 

£^\* 

_  • 

'*3 

m 

r 

j 

m          II 

bSEr*:         » 

—  ^_  

~                i 

\ 

1  — 

!, 

—  f—  M 

i  —  p  1  1/  — 

...<2  . 

«  1  H 

THE  DEATH   OF  WARREN. 

"THE  death  of  Warren"  was  written  by  EPES  SARGENT,  expressly  for  the  music  and 
singing  of  WILLIAM  E.  DEMPSTER. 

General  Joseph  Warren,  then  but  thirty-five  years  old,  was  President  of  the  Provincial 
Congress,  and  at  the  time  of  the  battle  of  Bunker  Hill,  had  just  been  made  a  Major-General. 
At  a  meeting  of  the  committee  of  safety  held  before  the  engagement,  his  friends  earnestly 
strove  to  dissuade  him  from  exposing  himself.  "  I  know  that  I  may  fall,"  said  Warren,  "  but 
where  is  the  man  who  does  not  think  it  glorious  and  delightful  to  die  for  his  country?-' 
He  took  a  musket,  and  went  unattended  to  the  battle-field.  General  Putnam  immediately 
offered  him  the  command ;  but  he  answered,  "  I  have  come  to  take  a  lesson  of  a  veteran 
soldier  in  the  art  of  war.  Tell  me  where  I  can  be  useful."  "  Go  to  the  redoubt,"  said  Put- 
nam ;  u  you  will  there  be  covered."  "  I  came  not  to  be  covered,"  he  replied ;  "  tell  me  where 
I  shall  be  in  most  danger;  tell  me  where  the  action  will  be  hottest."  When  Colonel  Prescott 
gave  the  order  to  retreat,  Warren  did  not  obey.  He  lingered  till  the  very  last,  and  was  re- 
luctantly retreating,  when  Major  Small,  of  the  British  army,  called  out  to  him  by  name,  begging 
him  to  surrender,  and  ordering  hismen  to  cease  firing.  On  hearing  this  demand,  Warren  turned 
his  face  to  the  foe  disdainfully,  received  a  shot  in  his  forehead,  and  died  instantly.  The  British 
General  said  that  Warren's  death  would  offset  the  loss  of  five  hundred  of  his  own  troops. 

With  all  these  facts  in  view,  does  not  the  far-famed  and  much-praised  action  of  Gen> 
eral  Warren  seem  the  merest  hardihood  and  boyish  rashness,  and  the  sacrifice  of  his  life 
most  inexcusable?  Had  he  really  "learned  the  art  of  war  from  a  veteran,"  the  result 
would  have  been  very  different.  At  that  critical  time,  his  life  was  invaluable  to  his  country^ 
while  nothing  whatever  was  gained  by  his  death. 


THE  DEATH   OF    WAREEN. 


a  tempo. 


545 


Whfin  the  war    -  cry  of     lib  -  or       -       ty       rang  through       the    land, 


To 


m 


a=±=t 


3=fa~ll~«— 3S- 


arms       sprang  our    fa  -  thers,         the   foe  to    with-stand ;          On        old  Bun-ker 


ra//. 


Hill  their   entrenchments  they  rear,  When  the    ar  -  my       is       joined        by      a 


iziizizzzii" : ij ^ i — i — d — 3— if — i"  f  1 — 4^  -«-••-}• — i  T:4 — if 

I     i J • —  i  3 — L^ 1-         ^         -I — L^— 4. — 1 1-0 4- 

^.^4   -+   ^  •*•      ^5^*       •*-^*^    •*•       •*':£'*•     •* 


youu"-      vol  -  unteer.  "Tempt  not  death !"     cried  his  friends ;   but  he   bade     them  good-bye,  Saying— 

i 


_  —  1 

*-  -t*  —  i—i- 

~f  —  1~^~  : 

3 

st          "  i               st 

546 


OUR    FAMILIAR    SONGS. 


CL    f  —  4=0—,  —  —  p  — 

r  S—  i 

f   '^?  - 

:r-po  }  =^ 

"Oh  !       it               is 

-r-               U  '— 

sweet                 for    our 

—  f— 

coun  -  try          to 

~^  \  "'                         j~" 

-r  *  1 

die." 

^D 

—  ^  — 

—  i  -—i— 

[       |             *?          ^^] 

t 

*     / 

i  ~m  -  '  •*  •? 

.  j  

—  f!- 

0*   • 

-5  ?  ;r— 

-  3-     ?  : 

^  I  ; 

EJr 
0— - —     — 0 — i     *  — — ^ 


The  tern   -  pest       of 

Agitato  con  brio. 


bat  -  tie 


now  ra    -  ges       and 


I 


swells,         'Mid  the    thun  -  der     of       can-non,       the       peal  -  ing       of          bells ;       And     a 


->- 


light, 


not    of       bat  -  tie, 


il  -   lumes       yon    -      der 


gggg^l 


spire 


—       Scene  of 


-J2L 


woe — 
8- 


Scene     of        woe, 
-a »— a — 


J 


'tis  Charles  -  town       on 


fire  ! 


The 


-- 


=£ 


^ 


THE  DEATH   OF    WARREN. 


54? 


young  vol  -  un  -  teer 


heedeth     not 


the    sad          cry,  But 


m 


a  tempo,  e  dolce. 


~E±: 


mur       -       murs,  'tis    sweet  for     our    coun  -    try         to  die!" 


Tis 


sweet,    Oh !  'tis       sweet  for     our      coun  -   try          to 


die! 


Agitato. 


^ 


"With          trum  -  pets       and  ban  -  ners 


the  foe       draw  -  eth 


near;  A         w>l  -  ley      of       mus-ket    -    ry       checks  their        ca  -    rccr!        With  the 

,- -K- 


f 


_\ ,— 


3. 

-«*- 


548 


OUR  FAMILIAR   SONGS. 


=iE       E£E£E    =^=    ^^ 

L±=  E^IZZZI  EE 


=± 


dead 


and  the       dy       -    ing 


the      hill        -  side 


is    strown,        And  the 


I  i      r         r~      .   - 1        rT^TTi — >• — — 

^ — i — j^i       . .  — . — 


-1 


"/ 


§S: 


Moderate. 


i-  :=*=?- 

i-^*  •  i 

r 

»  j 

^ 

-r- 

r  =}— 

*  — 

_*  —                          f  *_ 

^i  ytf  1 

shout       thro'  our 

_C  *  —  

line       is,      "the 

d;ij 

,  —  i 

r         iS           O 

ur 

0\\ 

n.       "Not 

yet,"                       cries    the 

1  ^  •••••••  ••••^•H— 

Jt=4—  i—  i- 

ZJ 

—  i~ 

—  i  —  : 

-,  i  i  i  —  n^~~  i  '  ij 

r^^         —            A            A 

- 

< 

§ 

| 

A 

V1  ly       p" 

: 

• 

• 

999&W0* 

1 

* 
f 

• 

• 
•h 

r-—                                  -- 

^ 

f 

P 

P\«     i     \      i 

• 

—  A  — 

}  — 

\ 

n  —              ^ 

\s     4     i.     L 

3  — 

u 

-^ 

i 


ra//. 

. 


young 


vol  -un    -   teer. 


"Do  they     fly!      Stand  firm!  stand  firm!      'tis 

1  1 

^  —  ^•'•-i  —  1  -f-  ---         •; 


T~^ 


-1      /  / 


/•  rail. 


a  tempo,  e  dolce. 


3 


sweet 


Oh!     'tis    sweet 


for     our    coun  -    try         to 


die! 


'Tis 


d 1    i   n — j— i r 

:j^^j=l~j~3 — ju 


— *- 


-j 

P  colla  voce. 


zd 


s;i-^3 


JZT=: 


sweet,    Oh  I  'tis       sweet 


for     our      coun  -    try          to  die  ! 


Agitato. 


^ — I — i~: 

^ 


^S^ 


THE  DEATH   OF    WARREN. 


549 


» 0—5 K 1 J         J7 

Nowour       POW   -der        is  spent       and  they       ral  -  ly '  ^~. 


*S(- 

gain; 


-*•     •*•  *  eJ 

"Re-treat!"       says  our  chief,       "since  un  -  armed          we    re  -  main."       But  the 

, : „ — ^__< ^ 

1 


young 


\o\  -  un  -  teer 


lin  -  gers    yet  on  the     field, 


Re  - 


»-r+t+ 


^\ 


5i=: 


f^4J=tEE?E 

_i> L»< — L^ L. 


luc-  tant       to       fly  and  dis  -  dain -ing       to     yield. 


A      shot! 


|==^=J: 


ff 


ff 


Fed. 


Adagio  con  molto.  pp 


rail. 


_iJ;n=~Sp       =^=^LL .^^ 

-j-^'a^.    -dr-^-^~ 
he  falls !  but  his  life's      la-test  sigh       Is,  " 'tis 


y 


550  OUR  FAMILIAR   SONGS, 

a  tempo  con  espressione. 


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sweet  Oh!     'tis  sweet  for     our  coun  -    try         to  die!  ">Tis 


S3EEEE3E 


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colla  voce. 


4=* 


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r: 


sweet,    Oh!  'tis       sweet 


for     our     coun  -   try 

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to 

/T\ 


die! 


SZld ZilZItlZj IL 


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(m  —  -{-_*  »  0  *  *  *  — 
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fell! 

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5     b      i               b  1 

hap  -  py    death  !           no  -  ble 
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ppp  Adagio. 

A 

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r^^//.  ad  lib. 


EEE 


t=::z^z=t 


fall  1  To       per  -   ish         for      coun  -   try         at      Lib   -  er    -      ty's       call !         Should  the 


J.OL&  ij&A±n    ujf     WAUMMjy. 

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blue         of          our         seas,               or      the      green         of           our         shore,              May 

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l/fc  —  h  T  —  M  —  '  —      -^    i*  1  f~       —  <>'__  g=t 

fg>            zzp  — 

sweet              Oh!     'tis    sweet                 for     our    coun  -    try         to 

die!  .          '"Tis 

^r     '   -*.  —  *  -0-   *       -0-       f  -0-  -^  -0-           -0-                •*• 

*   •*•-;•*•    '      ••• 
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Nl       ? 

552 


OUR  FAMILIAR  SOX  OS. 


THE   SWORD   OF   BUNKER   HILL. 


WILLIAN  Ross  WALLACE,  author  of  "The  Sword  of  Bunker  Hill,"  was  born  in  Lex- 
ington, Kentucky,  in  1819.  He  was  the  son  of  a  Presbyterian  clergyman.  After  com- 
pleting a  college  course,  he  studied  law  ;  but  having  been  successful  with  some  poetical 
ventures,  he  went  to  New  York,  where  he  long  resided,  devoting  himself  to  the  most 
ephemeral  kind  of  literature,  and  died  in  1883.  He  published  several  volumes  of  poetry. 

The  music  of  the  song  was  composed  by  BERNARD  COYERT,  who  still  appears  occasion- 
ally in  concerts,  and  especially  delights  in  singing  this  song. 


0  3  Jr                                                      |S         \                I 
Jf^tt     8      v       a  a  *-:  —                      S    -          —  jr~ 

fr  +  f 

^-i     M  K  i 

Ep-*-7P-   V    '    1         L   '    J    <>'     J 

1.    He      lay    up  -  on        his      dy-ing   bed;     His 
2.  The  sword  was  brought,  the    sol-dier's  eye        Lit 

j?y  «!        i  i       |   i  j   I    i     |       i       !   |   |   1    i 

_f  —  f  —  p.  —  b  —  ^  L^JJ  —  i 
—  i  E  —  i^  1  ^  —  i 

eye       was  growing      dim,                When 
with        a     sud-den     Same;               And 

JP  —  ^-      *L  J-'-l^  *  j^  -1J4^  * 

3j;j  i  jJ 

^•^  2  ^- 

(aatt  i  —  [T"^"         zc              n 

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«S(                      ^ 

i           '     r 

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"1 

UK-*  —  ^  —  p  —  ^  —  J  1  js  —  £—         Is  1 

A  fl  ^-v  -J-| 

-d-    --r-iM 

—  b  —  7  —  h~              —•—        —*  —  i 

with       a       fee   -    ble     voice     he    call'd        His    we 
as       h6  grasp'd    the      an  -  cient  blade,       He     mi 

/ffi^^^^-j     IM-G: 

J  b  f~                            _Jt=d 

^p-ing      son         to       him:              "Weep 
ir-mured  WAR-  REN'S  name:              Then 

[p          J    jjjij  1^  J    J^    1^ 

£—  J  ^^- 

<^J  J-  _ 

fg)g  »  ^  -*-i*     -( 

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1 

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—  1  

>.   ^  "1 

>           •"•          to     .                                                                  U 

o                  N 

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—  1  N  a—  T  1 

it^f  —  r~^  ~B  —  f~^  ~r  —  f  —  F  —  r~-  —  ^»~ 

r      *  ^^       -i  4 

ifU            j         K                u 

9  '       m                  \j        r 

BZ              V           </        -           V         V         \j         \            PH 

V                       \                           V       I 

not,       my  boy!"    the     vet'  -  ran     said,        "I 
said,    "My  boy,       I      leave   you     gold,  —    But 

r                 1                    if 

bow         to  Heav'n's  high  will,—            But 
what       is     rich  -  er      still,                 I 

J             »  £  =1  a—  {*=! 

$  j    f^1  J^^  ' 

s  y 

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ggg/     ^   •  F-             -sdi  

r^r^  r  —  ^j-pLi  ^  —  - 

xl:^_*  —  1  \J&  It  1 

IS  f  K.      ^                  -^—  , 

fo  fl  —     -4s  —  -j  4s  —  jx    J  —  -f-=  —  ^—  -^ 

—  i*  —  E  —  *^- 

-F  ^-^ 

quick  -  ly     from      yon      ant  -  lers  bring     The   Swo 
leave  you,  mark      me,    mark   me    now—  The  Swo 

rd       of      Bun-  ker 
rd       of      Bun  -  ker 

"•£-••?-+- 

Hill;                But 
Hill;               And 

1 

P  —  *    *    MJ'-JL  *    -J-'-i;  ^ 

1        r^                  s*                D 

^j'y*1  ^        ^  —           —  —  p 

—  —  i  j  [—&  —  •  
•tt 

—  "  —  r  —  r 

THE   SWOED    OF  BUNKER   HILL. 


553 


Eg 


S 


1 


quick  -  ly     from      yon      ant  -  lers   bring    The    sword        of     Bun  -  ker 
leave    you,  mark     me,    mark   me     now —  The  Sword        of     Bun  -  ker 


Hill. 
Hill. 


"  'Twas  on  that  dread,  immortal  day, 

I  dared  the  Briton's  band, 
A  captain  raised  this  blade  on  me  — 

I  tore  it  from  his  hand ; 
And  while  the  glorious  battle  raged, 

It  lightened  freedom's  will  — 
For,  boy,  the  God  of  freedom  blessed 

The  sword  of  Bunker  Hill. 


"  Oh,  keep  the  sword  !  "  —  his  accents  broke  — 

A  smile  —  and  he  was  dead  — 
But  his  wrinkled  hand  still  grasped  the  blade 

Upon  that  dying  bed. 
The  son  remains;  the  sword  remains  — 

Its  glory  growing  still  — 
And  twenty  millions  bless  the  sire, 

And  sword  of  Bunker  HilL 


THE   DEATH  OF   NELSON. 

THE  words  of  this  song  were  written  by  MR.  S.  J.  ARNOLD,  who  was  proprietor  of  the 
English  opera,  in  London,  and  manager  of  Drury  Lane  Theatre,  where  he  first  broughl 
Edmund  Kean. 

The  music  was  composed  by  JOHN  BRAHAM,  who  was  bora  in  London,  of  Jewish 
parents  in  1774.    He  was  early  left  an  orphan,  but  found  friends  who  helped  him  to  cu] 
veto  his  musical  talent  until  he  became  a  teacher  of  the  pianoforte.     His 
especially  for  vocal  music,  and  in  1794  he  made  his  first  appearance  in  Bath  as  i 
singer.    In  the  same  year  he  first  exhibited  his  wonderful  powers  to  London  audiences. 
Anxious  to  perfect  his  singing,  he  started  for  Italy,  giving  successful  concert. »  by jtfce  way^ 
He  returned  to  London  and  appeared  in  Covent  Garden  Theatre  in  1801,  and  fron     tat 
til  hemthe  first  rank  among  English  singers.    He  also  stood  high  among  composers  of 
opera  and  song  music.    Braham  possessed  a  fine  character.    Hei^y  Phmu>s  says  < rf  hnn : 
"He  was,  take  him  altogether,  a  most  extraordinary  personage,  highly  gifted   an    better 
educated  than  musicians  generally;  he  had  an  expansive  and  creative  mm  ;™^1 
with  a  glorious  voice,  full,  round,  and  flexible,  master  of  many  languages,  * 
cal  declaimer  he  was  perfect." 


554 


OUR   FAMILIAR   SONGS. 


n      RECIT.    Larghetto. 

*  /, 

1     •     m                                3                Z 

kh  ('  *  r  r  1 

= 

-*-!"  J  K  •• 

foi  "V*1  '  d 

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O'er  Nelson's  tomb,  with  silent  grief  op-  prest,  Brittauuia  mourns  her  he-ro  !  now  at  rest  :  But  those  bright 

XL    {*  i     y 

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fin       i  •    hJ  35          *      J        h 

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j    »^ 

lisly        /     -*         * 

J          J              J      i'      !/ 

n                               » 

lau  -  rels    will    not  fade  with 

vearSjWhose  leaves  are  wa-ter'd      by       a        na-tion's  tears. 

A                       ^"~ 

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Trumpets. 


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^&=f^^'~                    =q= 

V*                       1         -.       •           *          *                   «          1 

^     1 

^  -^=-^-    ^     '       J    -^- 

1.  Twas       in      Tra  -  fal  -  gar's      bav 
2.   And       now    the    can-nons     roar 

S)tt       ^  1  

-^-*  r  r  c  r  F--  =  —  • 

We     saw    the  foe  -  men      lay  ; 
A  -  long  th'affright-  ed      shore, 

&-    ,             __  mi\ 

U  U     v    \             —  •  —            f—  sr,  L  L  L  L 

^R 

Each 
Our 

L_ 

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N* 

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JJJ  J, 

>• 

THE  DEATH  OF  NELSON, 
f 


555 


P 


heart      was  bound  -  ing      then; 
Ncl   -    son    led        the      way; 


ta 


We    scorn'd  the    for  -  eign    yoke, 
His      ship,    the   Vic-  fry  named; 


Fer  our 
Long 


ships     were  Brit  -  ish      oak, 
be       that   vie  -  fry    famed, 


And     hearts       of       oak       our 
For        vie    -    fry  crown'd   the 


f 


-H-R- 


^ 


ad  lib. 


T==f 


-J 


Nel  -  son  mark'd  them      on        the  wave,Three  cheers  our     gal  -  lant  sea -men   gave,    Xor 

dear  -  ly      was     that       con-  quest  bought,  Too  well     the     gal  -  lant  he  -   ro  fought,  For 


thought     of    home     or     beau-ty, 
Eng  -  land,  home,  and    beau-ty, 


Nor     thought     of    home,    or     heau-ty. 
For       Eng  -  land,  home,  and   beau-ty." 


A- 
He 


556 


OUR   FAMILIAR    SONGS. 


•  ••Q  fi  4r  1  j  1 

__  f     <T  U-  1                            j  1  

2  _ZS                          J        W 

I",       J       J      -  | 

i 


I"1  1  1 

F= 

—  ^  —  i  — 

[—  j  1—  | 

g*-—  J  »  *  

loug     the     line     the 
cried,     &s   'midst    the 

<Vk     It          I**4  1    J    "1    J    "1    J    *i 

sig  -  nal    rang,   1     "  Eng  -  land      ex  - 
fire     he       ran,   ) 

FHH~rl    '  --   3 

-    G>          «v        ] 

pects        that 

ev'    -    ry 

(ft8*/  C  i  ^  *h~ 

=5=#=M- 

/        ^ 

[j     J     J-^ 

-« 

. 

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— 

- 

628  —  p—L^—Li--^ 
-*  p       ^       * 

^f  J  —  Jr- 

L-£2  1 

^_J  —  1 

man     This  day     will  do      his        du-ty,     This     day        will....       do          his  du  -  ty. 


^  T! 


Slower. 


fiy-H-  '  •    *—+  —  f  —  ^    x    J 

r  -    r   r  —  p  —  p—  «—  r-  3E 

\>  )    4 

!         b                                                    i 

tj                                                 r 

At     last       the     fa-    tal   wound,      Which  spread    dis-may       a-  round,         The        he   -    ro's 

/  29.                             ^''J                  •                *  •       4      S        *        .«  ^*    •                ^        5^ 

Ifm                «.^                       _^5                    la'prptiS^ 

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13          -*-^    '         *    -2-  f 

1           , 

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L^'      i              •*         •                • 

•                           • 

\  k^                      *        • 

3 

p                                                            Q 

k?         H^-! 

A                             1 

^T               ^^                  P    Qj2                            1                _|                  [                     1^ 

S*                                0     H^                                 ^ 

[(T\                      i    '  *  j«J         j                    •           J 

I         •*•      »          W    •         i        W          *        »>^j        •*• 

^  1  1  1  !C  L_«  =L_=  t_l 

—  W  —  *  — 
;eiv'd  ;"  Heav'n  fights     up  -  on      our     side!         The 

n 

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r.     | 

f\                         I           V               1               ^»                                                    S»                      j               ^» 

tr-J  S  cW  id  m  

j                                                                           i  tt3 

tr^^    -^-      -1-^-    -^-      -L^-       -^-               -^r- 
J                       1                            '                 ' 

=3  1  -^ 

(E5         ^-S^rH  5?—     -*  5?  9  £— 

—  •—              -*-    —  3  —  •— 

THE  DEATH   OF  NELSON. 


557 


(1 


—  . 

^-^ 

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%  F^F~ 

"•3~~i  

p-*r- 

1  1 

KB  —  *E=.  —  -*  —  =  *— 

day's      our  own,"    he 

cried  ! 
/•> 

^P 

"Now 

.ttj    -^       , 

long         e  -  nough       I've 

J        «H                 M              ^     «            S  «H 

lived!            In 

1        _ 

*'       fe                                        •» 

• 

§pP 

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F^Ff 

^      N^ 

J 

^         • 

L1_J  "  —  nr 

-f- 

' 

MH 



Oittf                     1        i 

manao. 

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i 

1 

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flT  ft    "  P  *       J 

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—  t  « 

! 

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1  ^r— 

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--r 

f  

-^  ^~ 

hon  -  or's  cause     my         life    was    pass'd,    In      hon  -  or's    cause      I           fall        at      last,     For 

A^^O^W                                                                                                                                    M  '         '  _J^|          '       fc                                                                                        ^^ 

. 

jr                        *£       M      tf       M       J       M          I    M 

1    K 

• 

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^-£— F 


Eug  -  land,  homo,  and    beau-tv, 


For       Eng  -  land,  home,   and   beau-ty."  Thus 


legato. 


eas 
^^ 


Pt 


f      f 


f       * 


^=^= 


^ 


-# 


end  -  ing      life      as  he       be  -  gan,  Eng -land     con- fess'd        that      ev'    -    ry 

X 


ri  j  i  a 


i 


l 


IM    J 

I  h>      J  — J 


558 


OUR   FAMILIAR    SONGS. 


t  fl 


V 


That   day    had  done    his        du  -  ty,     That     day         had         done         his  du  -  ty. 


THE  GRAVE  OF   BONAPARTE. 

HENRY  S.  WASHBTJRN,  who  wrote  the  words  of  this  song,  is  a  native  of  Plymouth, 
Mass.  He  was  educated  at  Brown  University,  and  went  into  business  in  Worcester,  and 
afterwards  at  East  Boston,  as  a  manufacturer  of  wire.  He  has  been  a  member  of  the  Mas- 
sachusetts Senate,  and  now  resides  in  Boston.  Among  his  numerous  fugitive  poems,  one 
on  the  burial  of  Mrs.  Adoniram  Judson,  on  the  island  of  St.  Helena,  was  set  to  music  by 
Mr.  Heath,  and  has  enjoyed  considerable  celebrity. 

LYMAN  HEATH,  composer  of  the  music,  was  born  in  Bow,  New  Hampshire,  August  24, 
1804,  and  was  a  noted  vocalist  and  composer.  He  died  in  Nashua,  which  had  been  his 
home  for  thirty-five  years,  June  30,  1870. 


U   I  \>            s        >, 

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0  

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—  0  1  n  — 

—  *  —  j  •  — 

1.  On     a      lone           bar  -ren         isle,       where  the    wild    roar     -    ing 
2.  Oh,           shade           of      the      might     -     y,  where  now    are          the 
3.  Yet,           spir    -        it       im    -   nior    -     tal,     the  tomb     can     -     not 

bil  -  low,           As  - 
le  -  gions,       That 
bind  thee,        For 

,                        i 

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tt=  _^, 

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W—L  \f=Z- 

sails           the    stern 
rush'd        but      to 
like        thine    own 

i-  v  —  t  —  i-  »  —  b- 

rock,        and     the     loud         tern  -  pests 
con  -quer           when  thou         ledst  them 
ea  -gle,            that  soar'd          to      the 

5  *=Jb  =£=^__d 

rave,            The      he        -     ro     lies' 
on  ;                 A    -  las           t.lu-y  liavo 
sun,           Thou  spring  -     est  from 

W                M            J            •»            J 

t*\       *i         ^ 
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THE   GRAVE    OF  BONAPARTE. 


559 


rjrlrzq  :  ^  £35  r 

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H^_^- 

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still,        while    the    d 
per       -   is'd       in      1 
bond    -      age,    and    1 

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wil  -  low,       Like    fond 
re  -  gions,      And      all 
hind  thee,         A     name 

^j    |y                     ^3~ 
weeping  mourn  -    ers  leans 
save  the  fame           of  their 
which  be  -  fore           thee  no 

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o    -      vcr  the    grave.        The    light -nings  may  flash,    and   the  loud     thunders   rat -tie,      He 
tri    -  umph  is      gone.        The    trum  -pet   may  sound   and  the  loud      can -non   rat- tie,     They 
mor   -    tal  had    won.        Tho'     na    -  tions  may   com  -  bat,  and  war's  thunders   rat -tie,      No 


heeds 
heed 
more 


not,  he  hears 
not,  they  hear 
on  the  steed 


not,  he's  free 
not,  they're  free 
wilt  thou  sweep 


from  all  pain; 
from  all  pain; 
o'er  the  plain ; 


He  sleeps  his  last 
They  sleep  their  last 
Thou  sleep'st  thy  last 


mm 


sleep,  he    has  fought          his  last 

sleep,  they  have          fought         their  last 

sleep,          thou  hast          fought          thy  last 


bat  -  tie, 
bat  -  tie, 
bat  -  tie, 


No 
N«> 
No 


sound 
sound 
sound 


can     a 
can     a 

fan     a 


560 


OUR   FAMILIAR   SONGS. 


THE   BURIAL  OF  SIR  JOHN   MOORE. 

CHARLES  WOLFE,  author  of  the  following  lyric,  was  born  in  Dublin,  Ireland,  December 
14, 1791.  He  was  educated  partly  in  England,  and  partly  at  Trinity  College,  Dublin.  At  the 
latter  place  he  wrote  the  poems  which  have  made  him  famous.  He  was  naturally  studious 
and  thoughtful,  and  took  orders  in  the  Established  Church.  He  died  Feb.  21,  1823. 

Medwin,  in  his  "  Conversations  of  Lord  Byron/'  tells  of  a  discussion  that  Byron  and 
others  held  as  to  which  was  the  most  perfect  ode  in  the  language.  Shelley  contended  for 
Coleridge's  on  Switzerland,  and,  after  Campbell  and  others  had  been  canvassed,  Byron  said : 

"  I  will  show  you  an  ode  you  have  never  seen,  th.it  I  consider  little  inferior  to  the  best 
which  the  present  prolific  age  has  brought  forth."  He  left  the  table,  and  returned  with  a 
magazine  from  which  he  read  "  The  Burial  of  Sir  John  Moore."  After  closing,  he  repeated 
the  third  stanza,  and  said  it  was  perfect,  particularly  the  lines : 

"  But  he  lay  like  a  warrior  taking  his  rest, 
With  his  martial  cloak  around  him." 

"  I  should  have  taken  the  whole  for  a  rough  sketch  of  Campbell's,"  said  Shelley. 

"No,"  replied  Byron,  "Campbell  would  have  claimed  them  if  they  had  been  his." 
The  historian  says  it  was  daylight  when  Sir  John  Moore  was  buried;  but  the 
' "  struggling  moonbeams,"  and  the  "  lantern  dimly  burning,"  will  be  forever  present  to  the 
mind.  Eev.  H.  J.  Symonds,  who  performed  the  funeral  service,  says  the  officers  of  the  staff 
carried  the  body  to  the  grave  which  had  been  prepared  for  it  on  one  of  the  bastions  of  the 
citadel,  and,  it  being  daylight,  the  enemy  discovered  that  the  troops  had  been  withdrawing 
and  embarking  during  the  night.  A  fire  was  opened  upon  the  ships,  the  brief  funeral  ser- 
vice was  said,  under  fire  of  the  guns,  and  the  body  was  silently  lowered  in  its  "  martial 
cloak."  The  poem  was  first  published,  anonymously,  in  the  Newry  Telegraph. 

The  music  is  .the  composition  of  JOHN  BARNETT,  an  eminent  English  composer,  who 
was  born  in  Bedford  in  1802.  His  father  was  a  London  jeweller,  who  when  he  saw  his 
son's  musical  capacity,  placed  him  under  the  tuition  of  Mr.  Arnold,  then  manager  of 
Drury  Lane.  Barnett  developed  a  fine  voice  and  taste,  and  was  soon  given  the  first  place 


THE  BURIAL   Ot   SIR  JOHN  MOORE. 


.se  everythmg  more  or  less,  aud  pause  to  give  a  reason  for  the  fifth  thaUs  in   s     ut  we 
must  content  onrse  TOs  with  saying  tbat  Mr.  Bamett  has  surpassed  hio.self  in  the  b    a,      Int 
he  has  nvaUed  the  ballet  in  the  concerted  pieces  and  choruses,  and  that  he  has  shown  MD 
self  to  be  excelled  by  no  living  English  composer  in  instrumentation." 


Andante. 


sEElfezEiJL. 

±-$~£±3r 


wm 


— N N Kr 


EiEBEjj 

iX- i^-'  •  "-i 


> 

ir 


Not     a    drum    was  heard,  not     a       f  „  -  neral    note,  as     hi.    corse    to  the  ram  -  parts  we 


Not  a         sol    -  dier     dis  -  charged  his         fare    -well    shot      O'er  the 


grave,  where  our  he    -    ro    we        bu  -  ried. 


We  bu  -  ried       him     dark  -  ly       at 

i 


- — ^ 


pEf^E 

•V ' krf- 


*-* — « •- 


fcras 

D ft. 


— _ _ r 

v 1^ — > — n 


dead       of    night,  The      turf     with    our  bay    -    o  -  nets      turn  -  ing, 


By^he 


|E       ;      ;      f~ 

^^^^ 


OUR   FAMILIAR   SONGS. 


strugg -ling     moon -beam's     mis   -   ty         light,    And  the        Ian  -  terns  dim  -  ly 


-* 3r 


r  5  i  r  r  r  •* 


^MSg u 

""!»' " : 


burn  -ing; 


By      the      strugg  -  ling    moon  -  beam's      mis    -   ty       light,        And  our 


—  s= 

'p  

N 

^5  

j  

1  

—  ^  

i 

•--  

(==  —  =H 

»•••' 

J—r 

-     * 

-*—  r  — 

H 

Ian  -  terns         dim  -  ly 


burn  -  ing. 


Not  a  drum  was  heard,  nor  a  funeral  note, 
As  his  corse  to  the  ramparts  we  hurried ; 

Not  a  soldier  discharged  his  farewell  shot 
O'er  the  grave,  where  our  hero  we  buried. 

We  buried  him  darkly  at  dead  of  night, 
The  turf  with  our  bayonets  turning, 

By  the  struggling  moonbeam's  misty  light, 
And  the  lanterns  dimly  burning. 

Few  and  short  were  the  prayers  we  said, 
And  we  spoke  not  a  word  of  sorrow ; 

But  we  steadfastly  gazed  on  the  face  of  the  dead, 
And  we  bitterly  thought  on  the  morrow. 

No  useless  coffin  confined  his  breast; 

Nor  in  sheet  nor  in  shroud  we  bound  him  — 
But  he  lay,  like  a  warrior  taking  his  rest, 

With  his  martial  cloak  around  him ! 


We  thought  as  we  hollowed  his  narrow  bed, 
And  smoothed  down  his  lonely  pillow,     [head, 

That  the  foe  or  the  stranger  would  tread  o'er  his 
And  we  far  away  on  the  billow. 

Lightly  they'll  talk  of  the  spirit  that's  gone, 
And  o'er  his  cold  ashes  upbraid  him  — 

But  nothing  he'll  reck  if  they'll  let  him  sleep  on 
In  the  grave  where  a  Briton  has  laid  him ! 

But  half  our  heavy  task  was  done, 

When  the  clock  tolled  the  hour  for  retiring; 
And  we  heard  the  distant  and  random  gun 

That  the  foe  was  sullenly  firing. 

Slowly  and  sadly  we  laid  him  down, 

From  the  field  of  his  fame  fresh  and  gory — 

We  carved  not  a  line,  we  raised  not  a  stone, 
But  we  left  him  alone  with  his  glory  1 


ALL    QUIET  ALONG    THE  POTOMAC. 

ALL  QUIET  ALONG  THE   POTOMAC. 

THIS  famous  song  has  had  many  claimants ;  but  when  the  matter  is  looked  into,  only 
two  remain  about  whose  right  to  it  there  can  be  any  serious  discussion.  These  are  LAMAR 
FONTAINE  and  MRS.  ETHEL  LYNN  BEERS. 

Mr.  Fontaine  was  born  at  Gay  Hill,  Texas.  In  1840  his  father  moved  to  Austin,  and 
was  secretary  to  General  Lamar,  after  whom  the  son  was  named.  The  family  removed 
again,  and  young  Fontaine  describes  himself  as  fond  of  all  the  pastimes  of  a  wild  frontier 
life,  and  says  it  was  his  delight  to  slip  away  from  home  and  live  among  the  Indians.  He 
became  a  major  in  the  Confederate  army.  After  the  war  he  wrote :  "  I  have  been  endeav- 
oring to  eke  out  a  living  as  pedagogue,  with  a  helpless  wife  and  child  dependent  upon  my 
daily  labors,  with  poor  pay,  and  a  cripple  too;  for  I  received  eleven  wounds  during  the  war, 
and  have  lost  my  right  limb." 

In  reply  to  a  letter  from  Mr.  Davidson,  author  of  "  Living  Writers  of  the  South,"  Mr. 
Fontaine  says:  "Now,  the  poem  in  question  was  written  by  me  while  our  army  lay  at 
Fairfax  Court-House,  or  rather  the  greater  portion,  in  and  around  that  place.  On  the  2d 
day  of  August,  1861, 1  first  read  it  to  a  few  of  my  messmates,  in  Company  I,  2d  Virginia 
Cavalry.  During  the  month  of  August  I  gave  away  many  manuscript  copies  to  soldiers, 
and  some  few  to  ladies  in  and  about  Leesburg,  Loudon  Co.,  Va.  In  fact,  I  think  that  most 
of  the  men  belonging  to  the  2d  Virginia,  then  commanded  by  Colonel  Eadford,  were  aware 
of  the  fact  that  I  was  the  author  of  it.  I  never  saw  the  piece  in  print  until  just  before  the 
battle  of  Leesburg  (October  21,  1861),  and  then  it  was  in  a  Northern  paper,  with  the  notice 
that  it  had  been  found  on  the  dead  body  of  a  picket.  I  hope  the  controversy  between 
myself  and  others,  in  regard  to  '  All  Quiet  along  the  Potomac  to-night,'  will  soon  be  for- 
ever settled.  I  wrote  it,  and  the  world  knows  it;  and  they  may  howl  over  it,  and  give  it  to 
as  many  authors  as  they  please.  I  wrote  it,  and  I  am  a  southern  man,  and  I  am  proud  of 
the  title,  and  am  glad  that  my  children  will  know  that  the  South  was  the  birthplace  of  their 
fathers,  from  their  generation  back  to  the  seventh." 

Mr.  Fontaine  mentions  other  poems  of  his,  which  are  "  non-come-at-able  just  now/'' 
and  he  encloses  a  manuscript  of  the  disputed  poem  which  differs  very  slightly  from  ita 
contestant. 

Mr.  Davidson  also  publishes  a  letter  on  the  subject,  written  by  Mr.  Chandler  Harris,  of 
Georgia,  in  the  course  of  which  he  says :  "  After  a  careful  and  impartial  investigation  of 
all  the  facts  in  my  reach,  I  have  come  to  the  conclusion  that  Mrs.  Beers,  and  not  Mr. 
Fontaine,  wrote  the  poem  in  question.  My  reasons  for  believing  that  Mr.  Fontaine  is  not 
the  author  of  <  All  Quiet/  are  several : 

"1.  The  poem  appeared  in  Harper's  Weekly  for  November  30,  1861,  as  'The  Picket 
Guard/  over  the  initials  of  Mrs.  Ethel  Beers,  of  New  York.  2.  It  did  not  make  its  appear- 
ance in  any  Southern  paper  until  about  April  or  May,  1862.  3.  It  was  published  as  having; 
been  found  in  the  pocket  of  a  dead  soldier,  on  the  battle-field.  It  is  more  than  probable 
that  the  dead  soldier  was  a  Federal,  and  that  the  poem  had  been  clipped  from  Harper. 
4.  I  have  compared  the  poem  in  Harper  with  the  same  as  it  first  appeared  in  the  Southern 
papers,  and  find  the  punctuation  to  be  precisely  the  same.  5.  Mr.  Fontaine,  so  far  as  I  have 
seen,  has  given  elsewhere  no  evidence  of  the  powers  displayed  in  that  poem.  I,  however,, 
remember  noticing  in  the  Charleston  Courier,  in  1863  or  1864,  a  'Parodie'  (as  Mr.  L.  F. 
had  it)  on  Mrs.  Norton's  'Bingen  on  the  Khine/  which  was  positively  the  poorest  affair  I 
ever  saw.  Mr.  Fontaine  had  just  come  out  of  a  Federal  prison,  and  some  irresponsible 
editor,  in  speaking  of  this  'parodie/  remarked  that  the  poet's  Pegasus  had  probably  worn 
his  wings  out  against  the  walls  of  his  Northern  dungeon. 


664 


OUR    FAMILIAR    SOXGS. 


"  You  probably  know  me  well  enough  to  acquit  me,  iu  this  instance  at  least,  of  the 
charge  of  prejudice.  I  am  jealous  of  Southern  literature;  and  if  I  have  any  partiality  in  the 
matter  at  all,  it  is  in  favor  of  Major  Lamar  Fontaine's  claim.  I  should  like  to  claim  this  poem 
for  that  gentleman;  I  should  be  glad  to  claim  it  as  a  specimen  of  Southern  literature,  but 
the  facts  in  the  case  do  not  warrant  it." 

So  much  for  Mr.  Fontaine's  claim.  On  the  other  hand,  Mr.  Alfred  H.  Guernsey,  for 
many  years  editor  of  Harper's  Magazine,  in  a  letter  dated  March  22,  1868,  says:  "The 
facts  are  just  these :  The  poem  bearing  the  title  '  The  Picket  Guard/  appeared  in  Harper's 
Weekly  for  November  30,  1861.  It  was  furnished  by  Mrs.  Ethel  Beers,  a  lady  whom  I 
think  incapable  of  palming  off  as  her  own  any  production  of  another." 

Mrs.  Beers  herself,  speaking  of  the  poem  in  a  private  letter  to  me,  says :  "  The  poor 
'Picket'  has  had  so  many  authentic 'claimants,  and  willing  sponsors,  that  I  sometimes 
question  myself  whether  I  did  really  write  it  that  cool  September  morning,  after  reading 
the  stereotyped  announcement  'All  quiet/  &c.,  to  which  was  added  in  small  type  'A 
picket  shot.'"  This  letter  had  the  same  effect  upon  me  that  the  agonized  cry  of  the  real 
mother  "Give  her  the  living  child !"  had  upon  King  Solomon,  as  he  dangled  the  baby  in 
one  hand  and  flourished  the  sword  in  the  other. 

MRS.  BEERS  was  born  in  Goshen,  Orange  Co.,  N.  Y.,  and  her  maiden  name  was  Eth- 
elinda  Eliot.  She  was  a  descendant  of  John  Eliot,  the  apostle  to  the  Indians.  Her  first 
contributions  to  the  press  appeared  under  the  nom  deplume  of  "Ethel  Lynn/'  one  easily 
and  prettily  suggested  by  her  very  Saxon  Christian  name.  After  her  marriage,  she  added 
her  husband's  name,  and  over  the  signature  Ethel  Lynu  Beers  published  many  poems, 
among  the  best  known  of  which  are  "Weighing  the  baby/'  "Which  shall  it  be?"  and 
"  Baby  looking  out  for  me."  Mrs.  Beers  resided  in  Orange,  New  Jersey,  where  she  died, 
October  10,  1879,  the  day  on  which  her  poems  were  issued  in  book  form. 

The  music  of  her  soug  was  composed  by  J.  DAYTON,  who  was  leader  of  the  band  of  the 
First  Connecticut  Artillery,  and  has  composed  several  other  melodies. 


I                     k. 

|  0  J?    \)  0 

-fs  

j  . 

—  N 

Igj^m  1 

M  •     J      *i  1 

H       M  : 

\-J  :     J 

— 

1  !    j  f* 

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»  — 

yi_     +^  i  v>    _^    J.  '  •  •     *     V  '  T     ~*  —  »  '41    T-3-  '  »  —  i  —  «-" 

1.  "All      qui    -    et        a  -  long       the     Po  -    to  -   mac,"  they     say,  "Ex    -     cept    now    and 
2.     All     qui    -    et         a  -  long       the     Po  -    to  -   mac       to  -  night,Where  the  sol  -  diers    Ho 

r           r 

r       i       r 

z        r 

c        r 

i*  *     i*      i 

—  1  1  r 

»  '  —  »  — 

^•M?    7  —  ^  U 

— 

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— 

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SEZI           M  J            J         * 

1    f          5 

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e  •               tJ-»   *        *         *          ~ 
thon         a      stray  pick    -    et 
peace  -  ful  -   ly    dream-  ing; 

!*•          •            "^ 

Is     shot,       as       he 
Their  tents,        in      the 

m                              1            N 

walks      on 
rays       of 

his 
the 

f 

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beat,       to      and 
clear       au  -  t  mini 

fro,        By  a     ri    - 
moon,    Or  the  light 

_£  glg=-t  -'• 

-J  —  HEEz 

fle  -  man      hid 
of     the    watch 

l_t  i  ^4 

j   3  1  j  J.  -^ 

in       the       thick 
-  fires     are      gleam  

et. 
ing. 

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±^=5_^p_Lj  1 

^^ 

ALL    QUIET  ALONG    THE  POTOMAC. 


565 


^Vrfr~Tl 

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N       1 

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1  J  .     , 

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'Tis 
A 

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noth  -  ing  :    a 
trem  -  u  -  lous 

pri  -  vate      or 
sigh,    as      the 

.-*•     f  ff 

two    now  and     then       Will  not  count       in      the 
gen  -  tie  night  wind  Through  the   for   -   est  leaves 

,r:  f  r  i  *  —  r-r-r*    f    r  i 

—  1  —                                        »-i  •  in  — 

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^ 


news       of       the       bat  -  tie; 
soft    -    ly        is      creep  -  ing : 


Not  an       of    -     fi  -   cer     lost,     on  -   ly 
While        stars       up       a  -  bove,  with  their 


f— f— E 


fct* 


f=r^ 


-^-bb  J.   J  — 

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t-. 

rJ.    J-    H 

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p^=| 

^        II 

one         of      the 

glit   -    ter  -  ing 

=3=^=bi^U^J 

men       Moaning    out         all        a  - 
eyes,        Keep       guard,  —  for     the 

lone       the  death 
ar   -     my       is 

—  r-:  j*  r~ 

rat 

sleep     - 

—  S  —  H 

tie." 
ing. 

-&- 

^  — 

^ 

- 

r  —  h-t- 

9- 

*  ..»_•  —  it  —  i  —  i 

~h  " 

There's   only  the   sound  of    the    lone    sentry's 
tread, 

As  he  tramps  from  the  rock  to  the  fountain, 
And  thinks  of  the  two  in  the  low  trundle-bed, 

Far  away  in  the  cot  on  the  mountain. 
His  musket  falls  slack,  his  face  dark  and  grim, 

Glows  gentle  with  memories  tender, 
As  he  mutters  a  prayer  for  the  children  asleep ; 

For  their  mother  —  may  heaven  defend  her! 

The  moon   seems  to  shine  just  as   brightly  as 
then, 

That  night  when  the  love  yet  unspoken, 
Leaped  up  to  his  lips,  when  low.  murmured  vows 

Were  pledged  to  be  ever  unbroken ; 
Then  drawing  his  sleeve  roughly  over  his  eyes, 

He  dashes  off  tears  that  are  welling, 
And  gathers  his  gun  closer  up  to  his  side. 

As  if  to  keep  down  the  heart  swelling. 


He  passes  the  fountain,  the  blasted  pine  tree, 

The  footstep  is  lagging  and  weary, 
Yet  onward  he  goes  through  the  broad  belt  of  light, 

Toward  the  shade  of  the  forest  so  dreary. 
Hark!    was  it  the  night-wind    that   rustled    the 
leaves, 

Was  it  moonlight  so  wondrously  flashing? 
It  looked  like  a  rifle  —  "  Ha !  Mary,  good-bye," 

And  the  life-blood  is  ebbing  and  plashing. 

All  quiet  along  the  Potomac  to-night, 

No  sound  save  the  rush  of  the  river; 
While  soft  falls  the  dew  on  the  face  of  the  dead, 

The  picket's  off  duty  forever. 
Hark!    was  it  the  night-wind  that    rustled    the 
leaves," 

Was  it  moonlight  so  wondrously  plashing? 
It  looked  like  a  rifle  —  "  Ha !  Mary,  good-bye," 

And  the  life-blood  is  ebbing  and  flashing. 


AFTER  THE  BATTLE. 

THIS  martial  lyric  is  one  of  two  written  by  THOMAS  MOOBE,  entitled  "Before  the 
Battle,"  and  «  After  the  Battle."    The  air  to  which  it  is  set  is  called  -Thy  Fair  Bosom." 


566 


FAMILIAR    SONGS. 


/Kb  f>  „  »t* 

i  ft*  «J  —  ^- 

P      N 

±  fc- 

to  S  —  I 

J-4 

Eft  4  r^a 

-t/  —  F:    —  U-^- 

-  V         ¥j  "•v  *  •  — 

•  ^  .  —  0—* 

**=*-;—£- 

—  P  fi—  »  «  1 

^^                                                        *  •  *  * 

1.  Night  closed   a-round....  the  conqu'ror's  way,    And  lightnings  show'd   the       dis-tant  hill,When.- 
2.    The      last  sad  hour....  of    freedom's  dream,  And     val  -  or's    task    moved  slow-  ly  by,   While 

^    -JzzVr: 

k-^-±-«-^H 

*— 

n   p 

^~1 

1*r~&r~      ^5 
4-   T 

K                  1 

fo\-      O 

P             P 

[  * 

p 

;T 

[<5Jr  fi  >* 

m    1      J  1  J    1 

J    i 

'*t            1^        **1 

«    1      t 

^»      - 

WTJ  A  -  * 

3»             *    '  * 

x  d 

•  •  • 


g 


those  who  lost....  that  dread-ful  day..     Stood  few  and  faint,       but     fear-less  still.    The  sol-dier's 
mute  they  watch'd  till    morning's  beam    Should  rise  and    give      them  light    to  die.  There's  yet  a 


tf.b  r-i 


S    l^/^N-44^f^^S 

-»-  -»-  -y-  — -  — -         Z.9- 


0  i    J.?J  i    litJ1 1    j  i  J  i  I  <l'-=i — M  h 

•    •• 


S 


^=q: 


>U         —«  s  s:  &- 

J  P  n- 

IS        N  f      -tt*        f 

f     #+   t 

L_ 

Q^-J                      =£=£= 

—  »  J  d  — 
^^^      g  •  — 

—  J—  :  *  H  6  

—T-J  <*r     I 
—V  -V.  —  \- 

-M^-J^-: 

«J 
hope,       the      pa-triot's        zeal,....        For      ev  -    er    dimm'd,      for-    ev  -   er    crost—        Oh! 

world     where  souls    are       free,....      Where    ty-  rants  taint           not       na-ture's  bliss;            If 

Jr  L        1 

I 

1 

rcn     d 

-^  

J  

^  

f(T^     1  1"               T"     1  J  r-\  *J  r-J  d 

: 

fg3;    j           —  d— 

za  3  

~^  ^3  

-*2  • 

N» 

—  —  \  -j  

—  ,  —  ^  1 

who    shall    say....    what     he  -  roes       feel         When     all     but       life 
death  that  world's    bright    op'  -  ning       be,  Oh !    who  would    live 


and     hon  -  or's  lost  * 
a      slave     in    this? 


f 


Pi 


i   ji f- 


p~-ra 


WHILE  HISTORY'S    MUSE. 

WHILE   HISTORY'S  MUSE. 


567 


THE  words  of  this  song  were  written  by  THOMAS  MOORE.    The  air  is  the  old  Irish 
melody  called  "  Paddy  Whack." 


1.  While   his  -  to  -  ry's  muse  the  me  -  mo  -  rial  was    keep  -  ing,      Of      all    that  the    dark  hand  of 

2.  "Hail    star    of    my  isle  !"  said  the    Spir  -  it,  all    spark-ling,  With  beams  such  as    break  from  her 

3.  "Yet  still   the  last  crown   of  thy    toils      is    re  -  main  -  ing,   The    grand-est,  the     pu  -  rest,  ev'n 


1  —  ^  —  E 

-*  *  —  J  *- 

^  *—  r 

=^ 

des  -  ti  -  ny  weaves,  Be  -  side  her  the  gen  -  ius  of  E  -  rin  stood  weeping,  Foi 
own  dew  -  y  skies,  "Thro'  a  -  ges  of  sor-row,de  -  sert  -  ed  and  dark-ling,  I've 
thou  hast  yet  known  ;  Tho'  proud  was  thy  task,  o  -  ther  na  -  tions  un  -  chain-ing,  Far 


hers      was  the     sto  -  ry  that    blot  -  ted     the    leaves.  But 


how  the    tears      In    her 


watch'd  for  some  glo  -  ry    like    thine    to        a    -  rise.    For,  tho'  he  -  roes  I've  num  -  ber'd,  un  - 
proud  L-  er     to     heal  the  deep  wounds  of      thy   own.      At  the  foot       of  that    throne  for  whose 


—  )  

• 

2 

—  1^===r-i  «  —  -: 

_,  ..  .... 

~N 

29 

* 

i    ^ 
^ 

«  »-V—                                                        9 

t    57            5           5~ 

l~^~ 

—  J~"^ 

eye  -  lids  grew  bright,  When,      af    -  ter  whole    pa    -    ges    of      sor  -  row     and  shame,  She  saw 
blest    was  their    lot,      And  un  -hal  -  lovv'd  they  sleep        in    the    cross-ways     of    fame;     But 
weal    thou  hast  stood,    Go,        plead     for     the    land      that  first     era  -  died    thy  fame ;    And 


568 


OUR  FAMILIAR   SONGS. 


m 


His -to  -  ry  write,  With  a  pen  -  cil  of  light  That  il  -  lum'd  the  whole  vol  -  ume,  her 
oh !  there  is  not  One  dis  -  hon  -  or  -  ing  blot,  On  the  wreath  that  en  -  cir  -  cles  my 
bright  o'er  the  flood  Of  her  tears  and  her  blood,  Let  the  rain  -  bow  of  Hope  be  her 


JM  i        -f—    -f~ 

-9  •  f  

0-      E5EEEE  E 

1      i  *      te 

r—  '  *  \  \ 

i               i 

\ 

Erffc-J—    ._;_  H      _«L 

-•-        —•  J  •  7- 

*<                * 

^                 7         j 

THE  HARP  THAT  ONCE  THRO'  TARA'S  HALLS. 

ABOUT  nine  hundred  years  before  Christ,  Ollav  Fola,  King  of  Ireland,  founded  schools 
of  philosophy,  astronomy,  poetry,  medicine,  and  history.  He  also  organized  a  species  of 
parliament,  by  a  triennial  assemblage  of  chiefs,  priests,  and  bards,  at  Teamor,  or  Tarn, 
and  the  record  of  their  laws  was  called  "  The  Psalter  of  Tara."  THOMAS  MOORE'S  song  of 
the  glories  of  his  country's  past,  calls  to  mind  the  lines  of  Oliver  Wendell  Holmes  on  the 
death  of  Moore : 


"  Shine  soft,  ye  trembling  tears  of  light 

That  strew  the  mourning  skies  ; 
Hushed  in  the  silent  dews  of  night, 
The  h'arp  of  Erin  lies. 


What  though  her  thousand  years  have  past, 

Of  poets,  saints,  and  kings,  — 
Her  echoes  only  hear  the  last 

That  swept  those  golden  strings." 


"The  Harp  that  once  through  Tara's  Halls,"    is  set  to  the  plaintive  old  air  of 
"  Grammachree." 


\ 


^M 


1.  The  harp       that  once  thro'    Ta    -     ra's  halls  The    soul         of     mu    -    sic    shed,  Xow 

2.  No  more         to  chiefs  and      la    -    dies  bright  The  harp         of     Ta    -     ra    swells;  The 


= rf-<=F=^^ 

^C0 —  — •  '  • 


THE  HARP  THAT  ONCE  TlUKf    TAHA'S  HALLS. 


569 


han.es      as   mute    on         Ta   -    ra's    walls,      As  if      that    soul    were    fled.  So 

a  -  lone,  that    breaks     at        night,    Its         tale       of        ru    -  in        tells.  Thus 


—  f  —  *  —  ^=*- 

-0  ?—  ~J— 

—  1  1 

1  

—  —    —  i  —  p  

t  —  ' 

!•• 

1  J  -         1                      W      H 

*      -« 

_ 

-^-                4n^n 

sleeps       the  pride    of       form  -  er       days,      So          glo    -  ry's  thrill    is        o'er, 
Free  -  dom  now     so         sel   -  dom    wakes,    The        on    -   fy    throb   she      gives, 


And 
Is 


P 


db 


II 


hearts      that  once     beat       high         for  praise,  Now  feel       that  pulse          no    more, 
when     some  heart     in     -     dig    -  nant  breaks,  To    show      that  still  she    lives. 


« 


FLOWERS  OF  THE  FOREST. 

"  THE  FOREST  "  was  a  tract  which  comprehended  the  county  of  Selkirk,  with  portions 
of  Peebleshire  and  Lanarkshire.  It  was  a  hunting  forest  of  the  Scottish  kings,  and  at  the 
battle  of  Flodden,  the  famed  archers  of  the  forest  fell  almost  to  a  man. 

Miss  JEAN  ELLIOT,  author  of  the  following  song,  was  bora  at  Minto  in  1727.  Sao 
was  a  quiet,  elegantly  cultivated  girl,  and  at  the  age  of  nineteen,  during  the  stormy  days  of 
the  rebellion  of  1745,  she  received  with  so  much  composure  a  party  of  Jacobites  who  came 
to  arrest  her  father,  Sir  Gilbert  Elliot,  Lord  Justice,  a  staunch  Whig,  that  the  men  rode  off, 
convinced  that  he  was  well  out  of  the  way,  —  when  he  was  within  a  stone's  throw  of  the 
house.  The  family  removed  to  Edinburgh,  and  there  she  continued  to  lead  the  life  of  a 
retired  gentlewoman,  the  last  of  her  generation  who  kept  a  sedan  chair,  in  which  she  was 
carried  out  for  her  daily  airings  on  the  shoulders  of  caddies.  She  died  March  29,  1805. 


570 


OUR   FAMILIAR   HONGS. 


When  Miss  Jean  was  about  thirty  years  old,  she  was  riding  through  the  Forest  one 
evening,  and  talking  of  Flodden,  when  her  brother  laid  a  wager  that  she  could  not  write  a 
ballad  on  the  subject.  Two  lines  of  an  old  song  came  to  her  memory,  and  before  she 
reached  home  she  had  fitted  to  it  some  new  ones  of  her  own,  which  were  so  old  in  form, 
that  the  public  instantly  referred  them  to  one  of  the  elder  bards.  Burns,  who  discovered 
the  truth,  said :  "  the  manners  indeed  are  old ;  but  the  language  is  of  yesterday." 


Larghetto. 


Lass  -  es       a  -    lilt  -    in'    be 


fore  dawn     o'  day ;  Now    there's'  a     moan  -  in'   on 


il   -    ka  green  loan-  in',  The  flow'rs    of       the      for  -  est    are         a'        wede     a-way.        At 


m 


f^^ 


f^ 


buchts    in    the  morn -in',  nae    blythe  lads  are  scorn -in',  Lass-  es    are    lane-  ly,     and 


~JSL 


THE  FLO  WEES  OF  THE  FOREST. 


In  har'st  at  the  shearin',  nae  youths    now   are 
jeerin', 

The  bandsters  are  runkled,  and  lyart,  and  gray, 
At  fair  or  at  preachin',  nae  wooin'  nae  fleechin', 

The  flowers  of  the  forest  are  a'  wede  away. 
At    e'en,    in    the    gloamin',    nae    swankies    are 
roamin', 

'Bout  stacks,  'mang  the  lassies,  at  bogle  to  play ; 
But  each  ane  sits  dreary,  lamenting  her  dearie, 

The  flowers  of  the  forest  are  a'  wede  away. 


Dool  and  wae  for  the  order  sent  our  lads  to  the 

border, 

The  English  for  ance  by  guile  wan  the  day : 
The  flowers  of  the  forest,  that  fought  aye  the 

foremost, 

The  prime  o'  our  land  now  lie  cauld  in  the  clay. 
We'll  hear  nae  mair  liltin'  at  our  ewe-milkin', 

Women  and  bairns  are  dowie  and  wae, 
Sighin'  and  moanin',  on  ilka  green  loanin", 

The  flowers  of  the  forest  are  a'  wede  away. 


THE  TIGHT   LITTLE  ISLAND. 

THOMAS  DIBDIN,  author  of  "  The  Tight  Little  Island,"  was  the  eldest  son  of  the 
great  English  sea-song  writer,  and  was  born  in  London,  in  1771.  Garrick  was  his  god- 
father, and  when  he  was  four  years  old  he  appeared  on  the  stage  as  Cupid.  He  became 
actor,  author,  and  composer,  and  wrote  more  than  a  thousand  songs,  few  of  which  have 
outlived  him.  His  farce  of  "Mother  Goose"  brought  the  managers  of  Co  vent  Garden 
Theatre  a  hundred  thousand  dollars,  and  "The  High-Mettled  Racer"  made  a  clear  profit  of 
sixteen  thousand  dollars  for  its  proprietors;  but  Dibdiu  died  in  poverty  while  compiling  an 
edition  of  his  father's  songs,  September  16,  1841. 

WILLIAM  REEVE,  who  arranged  the  music  for  "The  Tight  Little  Island"  from  the 
air  of  "  The  Rogue's  March,"  was  born  in  London  in  1775.  He  was  for  a  time  an  organist 
in  Devonshire,  but  returned  to  London,  where  he' was  an  actor  and  musician  in  theatres, 
.and  a  successful  dramatic  composer,  especially  of  comic  pieces. 

Arranged  by  Edward  S.  dimming*. 
Moderate 


572 


OUR   FAMILIAR   SONGS. 


jffl      [^       N       N       N     H 

V-JF 

m       f 

—  F- 

p   f*  r    r   N   r  —  i  —  s 

KB    *    J  J—J  J  • 

—  ^-  -P- 

P- 

-P  " 

—  L— 

X  —  J  —  L  —  9  —  J  h  1 

^Li  f.  f.  *_                      ty  y  p  y  ^  w.  ^  1  —  ^_  ^  • 

spot     I  should  hit   on  would  be     lit  -tie  Brit-ain,"  Says  Freedom,  "why,  that's  my  own  Is-  land." 
Dane,  Pict,  and  Sax-on,  their  homes  turn'd  their  backs  on,And  all  for   the  sake    of     bur       Is-  land. 

fe   ^    g       ^       t      1       * 

rrs  —  f  —   —  f  —  f  — 

—  F    i* 

• 

=3= 

0 

-F  F  F  F  —  f—  a  a  • 

—  U~i~ 

'i  =1  U  m  =1  •  r  1  T  S 

*^*-/  '  *• 

r 

f      II       r         r  i 

I. 

1  

CHORUS.  — 

flu    r^    N  Is  Is 

Is       N 

tmmmml 
.           1 

•    LI' 

Lrftu.    J       M      J      g 

P 

S 

l 

/L  Jf  T               i 

!      0 

J 

1 

P 

I/TV 

'ml 

f   •  - 

• 

j 

s  •       N       N       S       N       I         m   • 

IMJ        |*       999 

9         9 

• 

9 

9                           9    • 

<J        >                                                                      »_^.J!.j^.-e.^.»^..»' 

Oh  I  what  a   snug    lit  -  tie        Is  -   land,     A     right  lit  -  tie,  tight  lit  -  tie       Is  -    land, 
Oh  I  what  a   snug    lit-  tie       Is  -   land,  They'd   all  have    a  touch    at    the       Is   -    land, 

n*s  —  i*  —  r~f  —  f  —  f  —  f  —      1  —  i~H~~         —  *  —  '  —                      —  *  —  i  9  '  —  9—  =  —  • 

L  . 

-& 

—  1  •  «  *—  t  1  fcj  

^  it         -P  —  '-  —  P  —  P  —  P-    ? 

-P-— 

-P 

—  P  ^—  f  P  P—        B^  P  

n  +t 

—  v  —  v  —  V  —  v  —  v    r  r   —  l  —  •• 

IL            N            K. 

N     ^ 

N       1 

V 

^ 

D 

r       P       r       v                                       II 

XL   S     r      P      P 

^ 

\ 

*                 PUZT 

ifh      J    J    J 

j     J 

J       J 

9\ 

*       n       *       J     -   ^ 

^  V         f      fl      f      t  ' 

^    ^ 

*\       m, 

1 

!           1           i         *                        J 

^J              9999'            9999 

All  the  globe  round,   None  can    be  found 
Some  were  shot  dead,     Some  of  them  fled, 

0        p       m       m   •          00mm 

_ 

So 
And 

—  S~^f 

*****£      *:      f 

hap  -  py     as    this    lit  -  tie        Is  -   land, 
some  stayed  to    live    in     the        Is  -  land. 

(m\^*           *           |             i             1 

-F--? 

t        9 

RV>F 

-P~ 

IIF  —  r  —  »  —  P  —  c  —  ^  •     * 

W±z..\  i  ;,  p  . 

—  j-  H  

-»  — 

-f-  h  1—  —  •      P  •  — 

-v  —  ^  —  v  —  —  F  *-^  — 

^-  E  u  r  —  ' 

Then  a  very  great  warman,  called  Billy  the  Norman, 

Cried  "  hang  it,  I  never  liked  my  land ; 
It  would  be  much  more  handy  to  leave  this  Normandy, 
And  live  on  yon  beautiful  Island." 
Says  he,  "  'tis  a  snug  little  Island, 
Sha'n't  us  go  visit  the  Island  ?" 
Hop,  skip,  and  jump,  there  he  was  plump, 
And  he  kicked  up  a  dust  in  the  Island. 

Yet  party  deceit  helped  the  Normans  to  beat, 

Of  traitors  they  managed  to  buy  land ; 
By  Dauc,  Saxon,  or  Pict,  we  had  never  been  licked, 
Had  they  stuck  to  the  King  of  the  Island  1 
He  lost  both  his  life  and  his  Island, 
Poor  Harold,  the  King  of  the  Island ! 
That's  very  true,  what  could  he  do  ? 
Like  a  Briton  he  died  for  his  Island. 


Then  the  Spanish  Armada  set  out  to  invade  her, 

Quite  sure  if  they  ever  came  nigh  land, 
They  could  not  do  less  than  tuck  up  Queen  Bess, 
And  take  their  full  swing  in  the  Island. 
The  drones  came  to  plunder  the  Island, 
Oh  1  the  poor  Queen  of  the  Island, 
But  snug  in  her  hive  the  Queen  was  alive, 
And  buz  was  the  word  at  the  Island. 


These  proud  puffed  up  cakes  thought  to  make  Duck* 

and  Drakes 

Of  our  wealth,  but  they  scarcely  could  spy  land, 
Ere  our  Drake  had  the  luck  to  make  their  pride  duck, 
And  stoop  to  the  lads  of  the  Island. 
The  good  Wooden  Walls  of  the  Island, 
Huzza !  for  the  lads  of  the  Island, 
Foes,  one  by  one,  let  'em  come  on, 
But  how'd  they  come  off  at  the  Island  I 

I  don't  wonder  much,  that  the  Russ  and  the  Dutch 
Have  since  been  oft  tempted  to  try  land, 

And  I  wonder  much  less  they  have  met  no  success, 
For  why  should  we  give  up  our  Island  ? 

Oh  I  'tis  a  wonderful  Island, 

All  of  'em  long  for  the  Island, 
Hold  a  bit  there,  (let  'em)  take  fire  and  air, 

But  we'll  have  the  Sea  and  the  Island. 

Then  since  Freedom  and  Neptune  have  hitherto  kept 

tune 

In  each  saying  "  This  shall  be  my  land," 
And  the  men  of  old  England  be  true  to  their  kingland» 
We'd  show  them  some  play  for  the  Island. 
We'd  fight  for  our  right  to  the  Island, 
We'd  give  them  enough  of  the  Island, 
Invaders  should  just  bite  at  the  dust, 
But  not  a  bit  more  of  the  Island. 


YE  MARINERS  OF  ENGLAND. 

YE   MARINERS   OF   ENGLAND. 


573 


IN  his  life  of  THOMAS  CAMPBELL,  Dr.  Beattie  says :  «  Mrs.  Ireland,  who  saw  much  of 
Campbell  at  this  time  (1799)  mentions  that  it  was  in  the  musical  evenings  at  her  mother's 
house  that  he  appeared  to  derive  the  greatest  enjoyment.  At  these  soirees  his  favorite 
song  was  <  Ye  Gentlemen  of  England,'  with  the  music  of  which  he  was  particularly  struck, 
and  determined  to  write  new  words  for  it.  Hence  this  noble  and  stirring  lyric  of  « Ye 
Mariners  of  England,"  part  of  which,  if  not  all,  he  is  said  to  have  composed  after  one 
of  these  family  parties.  It  was  not,  however,  until  after  he  had  retired  to  Ratisbon,  and 
felt  his  patriotism  kindled  by  the  announcement  of  war  with  Denmark,  that  he  finished  the 
original  sketch,  and  sent  it  home  to  Mr.  Parry,  of  the  Morning  Chronicle? 

After  Campbell  had  visited  Germany,  and  met  the  Irish  exiles  who  had  inspired  his 
"  Exile  of  Erin,"  he  returned  to  London,  and  thence  to  Scotland.  In  Edinburgh  he  was 
arrested  for  high  treason,  on  suspicion  of  complicity  with  the  Irish  exiles.  His  trunk 
was  seized,  but  the  search  through  its  contents,  instead  of  bringing  to  light  treasonable 
papers,  revealed  the  first  draft  of  "Ye  Mariners  of  England,"  which  of  course  amply 
vindicated  his  loyalty. 

The  music  of  "  Ye  Gentlemen  of  England"  was  composed  by  JOHN  WALL  CALLCOTT, 
who  was  born  at  Kensington,  England,  in  1766.  He  early  developed  a  fondness  for  music, 
and  when  thirteen  years  old  he  attempted  composition,  and  wrote  pieces  for  a  private  play. 
He  sent  one  hundred  original  compositions  to  compete  for  a  prize  offered  by  the  Noble- 
man's Catch  Club.  When  the  club  decided  to  accept  bub  three  pieces  of  a  sort,  Callcott 
sent  twelve,  four  of  which  gained  the  four  medals.  By  himself  he  studied  French,  Italian, 
Hebrew,  and  Syriac.  He  became  joint  organist  of  St.  Paul's,  Covent  Garden,  and  studied 
instrumental  music  with  Haydn.  Dr.  Callcott  began  to  compile  a  musical  dictionary,  and 
while  proceeding  with  it,  formed  a  military  band  for  which  he  composed  and  arranged  the  * 
music,  and  personally  drilled  the  performers.  He  also  wrote  a  musical  grammar.  For 
fifteen  years  before  his  death,  which  took  place  May  15, 1821,  his  mind  was  deranged.  The 
music  of  the  song  is  arranged  as  a  trio  for  men's  voices. 

Trio  for  Male  Voices. 


-6-.  fc- 

i  • 

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r-<ff>  

fe£=e- 

&  — 

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•-£-         •  —  -f 

-f 

r      T    "Thfe  *- 

2=t~ 

1.  Ye 
2.  The 

(3-  1 

mar  -  i   -  ners       of 
spir   -  its       of     your 

Eng    -land,  That  guard  our       na  -    live    was,          Whose 
fa    -    thers  Shall    start  from      ev  -    'ry    wave!     For     the 

g—  f—  f-jf  T    -r    r-t.     J»J-i 

2-J  g-t 

w 

c  1  — 

-j  

1 

flag     has    brav'd    a          thou  -  sand  years,    The  bat   -  tic       and    the    breeze,  Your 

deck     it       was      their     field      of     fame,  And  the        o    -    cean    was  their  grave.  Where 


m 


-: 


ps 

Hl—i —          3- 


i r  l~r'.  ^_ ,,-H — 


glo    -  rious   stand  -  ard    launch        a -gain,     To      match      an-    oth    -    er       foe!.. 
Blake     and      migh  -    ty         Nel    -    son    fell.    Your     man    -    ly      hearts    shall    glow,. 


674, 


OUR  FAMILIAR   SONGS. 

_<2.. 


U  J*  —  —  —    —  t  .-  fo  —  f  — 

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-*- 

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—  9  —  •  ~M  

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BE  £  —  _?  —  r.  .1  i  j_  — 

•/                      r     ^ 

And           sweep           thro' 
As         ye     sweep          thro' 

1  ' 

the    deep, 
the    deep, 

• 
:  —  b  2?  

1  
While 
While 

™      '  *  •       ^      »—  £- 

v« 
the    storm  -   y  winds       do 
the    storm  -  y  winds        do 

—  b  —         i  —  t  ^  — 

-T  1  H  

EE3 

CHORUS. 


i  0  ,[>   'fg  *~  •     \     ,  •  J  «-:  f      i     X"" 

1'  —  * 

'              I     n 

-5  —  r 
•   ^ 

—  '  — 

blow,           While     the        storm  -    y  winds       do       blow; 

1  ix  —  ' 
While      the 

»_V-_U  _  0  ^__  &  

-           t?—  r 

j-  T     _     \ 

mm*.  "7          5             ff             5             0          \         0       ^    0       £             £          0          ^             ' 

-%—*— 

fm^  —  p  p  P-     -  —  p*-3  —  i*-  —  €  —  —  *  —  ^  —  i  — 

bat    -tie       rag  -  es     loud    and    long,  And  the  storm  -y 

winds  do    blov^^^T... 

While  the 

•*"]        f  \  p  • 

2              J 

•  •     &                            ]                 1       ,        m    0        ' 

* 

]  j 

!_*•         ' 

"       .j 

—  1  n 

—  *—  »—  5  ?— 

bat    -    tie           ra    -   ges        loud     and       long,    And  the    storm  -  y        winds      do      blow. 

(-)-—  J7  —  ^  ^  ^  0  F  1  1  1  H  H  

?  F  »  •—  - 

--it  —  ^\\ 

-  P     1:            —  bJ—  "-*  ——.  

.,  1  1  j  

Britannia  needs  no  bulwarks, 

No  towers  along  the  steep : 
Her  march  is  o'er  the  mountain-waves, 

Her  home  is  on  the  deep. 
With  thunders  from  her  native  oak, 

She  quells  the  floods  below, — 
As  they  roar  on  the  shore, 

When  the  stormy  winds  do  blow ; 
When  the  battle  rages  loud  and  long, 

And  the  stormy  winds  do  blow. 


The  meteor  flag  of  England 

Shall  yet  terrific  burn; 
Till  danger's  troubled  night  depart, 

And  the  star  of  peace  return. 
Then,  then,  ye  ocean  warriors ! 

Our  song  and  feast  shall  flow 
To  the  fame  of  your  name, 

When  the  storm  has  ceased  to  blow: 
When  the  fiery  fight  is  heard  no  more, 

And  the  storm  has  ceased  to  blow. 


BATTLE  OF  THE   BALTIC. 

THIS  is  another  of  CAMPBELL'S  naval  lyrics.  The  music  was  arranged  by  C.  H.  PTJRDAY, 
a  contemporary  English  composer,  who  has  written  many  melodies,  and  edited  and  arranged 
the  music  of  the  "  Royal  Naval  Song  Book/'  one  of  the  best  collections  of  its  kind  ever 
published. 


-^3:        E?E 
•t=f— S=4-<i  *      T 

3I^__ « 0-!- 


1.    Of....        Nel-sonand    the    North 
1.  Like    le    -   vi    -    a-thans     a  -  float. 


Sing 
Lay 


the 
their 


glo  -  rious  day's 
bul  -  warks  on 


ft*.    * 

re  -  nown.    When   to 
the    brine,     While    the 


BATTLE    OF    THE  BALTIC. 


arms  a  -  long    the  deep,    proud  -ly 
ten    of     A  -  pril  morn      by      the 


shone.  By    each  gun     the  light-ed    brand,  In      a 

chime ;  As    they  drift  -  ed  on  their  path,  There  was 

S 
* f- 


bold,    de  -  ter  -mined  hand,    And    the    prince  of  all   the    land      Led    them 
si  -lence  deep      as    death;   And    the    bold  -  est  held  his  breath,   For       a 


time..-- 


But  the  might  of  England  flushed 

To  anticipate  the  scene ; 
And  her  van  the  fleeter  rushed 

O'er  the  deadly  space  between. 
"  Hearts  of  oakl  "  our  captains  cried,  when  each 

gun 

From  its  adamantine  lips 
Spread  a  death-shade  round  the  ships, 
Like  the  hurricane  eclipse 
Of  the  sun. 

Again  !  again  !  again ! 

And  the  havoc  did  not  slack, 
Till  a  feeble  cheer  the  Dane 

To  our  cheering  sent  us  back : 
Their  shots  along  the  deep  slowly  boom:  — 
Then  ceased,  —  and  all  is  wail, 
As  they  strike  the  shattered  sail ; 
Or,  in  conflagration  pale, 
Light  the  gloom. 

Outspoke  the  victor  then, 

As  he  hailed  them  o'er  the  wave; 
«  Ye  are  brothers  !  ye  are  men  ! 
And  we  conquer  but  to  save  ! 
So  peace  instead  of  death  let  us  bring; 
But  yield,  proud  foe,  thy  fleet, 
With  the  crews,  at  England's  feet, 
And  make  submission  meet 
To  our  King." 


Then  Denmark  blessed  our  chief, 

That  he  gave  her  wounds  repose ; 
And  the  sounds  of  joy  and  grief 
From  her  people  wildly  rose, 
As  Death  withdrew  his  shades  from  the  day, 
While  the  sun  looked  smiling  bright 
O'er  a  wide  and  woeful  sight, 
Where  the  fires  of  funeral  light 
Died  away. 

Now  joy,  Old  England,  raise ! 

For  the  tidings  of  thy  might, 
By  the  festal  cities'  blaze, 

Whilst  the  wine-cup  shines  in  light; 
And  yet,  amidst  that  joy  and  uproar, 
Let  us  think  of  them  that  sleep, 
Full  many  a  fathom  deep, 
3y  thy  wild  and  stormy  steep, 
Elsinore ! 

Brave  hearts!  to  Britain's  pride 

Once  so  faithful  and  so  true, 
On  the  deck  of  fame  that  died 

With  the  gallant,  good  Riou : 
Soft  sigh  the  winds  of  heaven  o'er  their  grave, 
While  the  billow  mournful  rolls 
And  the  mermaid's  song  condoles, 
Singing  giory  to  the  souls 
Of  the  brave ! 


576 


OUR   FAMILIAR    SONGS. 


RULE,    BRITANNIA 


THE  Eoglish  anthem  of  "Rule  Britannia"  has  long  been  accredited  to  JAMES  THOMSON, 
author  of  "The  Seasons;"  but  it  is  by  no  means  certain  that  it  is  his.  The.  song  first 
appeared  in  the  masque  of  "Alfred,"  in  1740,  which  was  written  by  David  Mallet  jointly, 
with  Thomson.  In  the  Masque,  as  altered  by  Mallet  in  1751,  three  of  the  six  original 
stanzas  were  omitted,  and  three  additional  stanzas,  written  by  Lord  Bolingbroke,  were 
substituted.  An  editor  of  Thomson's  works  ascribes  the  original  ode  to  Mallet,  "  on  no 
slight  evidence."  For  a  long  time  the  sopg  was  not  included  in  the  collected  works  of 
either.  In  1755  Mallet  brought  out  his  "Masque  of  Britannia,"  at  Drury  Lane  Theatre, 
and  it  was  received  with  great  applause.  The  Monthly  Review,  a  Scottish  magazine  of  the 
time,  in  noticing  it,  says :  "  Britannia,  a  masque,  set  to  music  by  Dr.  Arne.  Mr.  David 
Mallet  is  its  reputed  author.  His  design  was  to  animate  the  sons  of  Britannia  to  vindicate 
their  country's  rights,  and  avenge  her  wrongs." 

DAYID  MALLET  was  bom  in  Creiff,  Perthshire,  Scotland,  about  1700.  When  very 
young,  he  was  a  janitor  of  the  High  School  at  Edinburgh.  He  became  tutor  in  a  family 
residing  near  that  city,  and  prosecuted  his  studies  at  the  University. 

The  air  of  "Rule,  Britannia"  was  composed  by  DR.  THOMAS  ARNE,  who  was  born  in 
1704,  the  son  of  a  wealthy  upholsterer  in  London.  He  was  educated  at  Eton,  and  his 
father  designed  him  for  the  law,  but  while  pursuing  his  studies,  the  boy  used  to  satisfy  his 
craving  for  music  by  dressing  in  servants'  livery  and  sitting  in  the  upper  gallery  at  the 
theatres.  He  learned  to  play  with  the  strings  of  his  spinet  muffled  in  a  handkerchief. 
One  day  his  father  was  shown  into  a  gentleman's  house  where  a  musical  party  was  in  full 
blast,  and  to  his  amazement  and  disgust,  his  own  son  occupied  the  post  of  first  fiddler. 
From  that  time  he  was  allowed  to  play  at  home,  and  soon  the  family  became  exceedingly 
proud  of  his  achievements.  He  taught  his  sister  to  sing.  She  had  a  charming  voice,  and 
he  wrote  an  opera  for  her  which  had  a  run  of  ten  nights.  She  became  the  famous  Mrs. 
Cibber.  Arne  wrote  the  first  English  music  that  rivalled  Italian  in  compass  and  difficulty. 
His  greatest  work  was  the  music  to  "  Comus."  He  died  March  5, 1778.  While  attempting 
to  illustrate  a  musical  idea,  he  sang  an  air  in  faltering  tones ;  the  sound  grew  fainter,  until 
song  and  breathing  ceased  together. 


M      Maestoso 

'_j2    -p   =c=^=3=i  f 

-p                                                       ^ 

1.  When 

-•  •  •—  1  ^- 

2.  The 

-H  r 

—  K  N  K  1             1 

j^-     =tgr3_    ,      _g 

» 

*     ,    f~        4                  4    . 

^ 

T  —  |      '      '      '  fc^^^  -j 

i     \ 

—  0  7  0  —  ^  0  —  =f  0  1  — 

:i2                                                      « 

_-*        ^        «_,          11     -^3          1  j 

RULE,    BRITANNIA! 


577 


z^m:;z^— t fr — * — h-rj^*bzN— d"— 

•-^LLfft^'      *      *    zjEfcE^jlEi 


z^te 


^fe 


ei;r'-*-; 


r.08e from  out    the       a       -     zure  main,  A '-  rose,  a  -  rose  a  -  rose  from  out  the 

m theirturn    to       ty       -    rants  fall,  Must      in  their        turn ,      to 


— »-^— D— ^  — 
a  -  zure  main, 
ty  -  rants  fall; 


This        was    the  charter,      the    char  -  terof    the     land,  And 

While      thou  shalt  flourish,    shalt  flour  -  ish  great  and  free,  The 


\ Jt  -+     f  LJ     !         !      tT| 


5    3 


^ 1 * j-  4~ i 1       y       r  «j ^ |       J       • 

t=£=3&=££=l        \     l--^-*-^^^^: 

^~^>  =t  =$  z;  =t    ^3      ^^    ^      y>    -^  *  * 


J*  •  T  f 


f-^T^^ 


guar  -  dian  an 

dread   and          en 


4 V 

-    gels    sang       this    strain;      "Rule,  Bri  -  tan  -  nial  Bri- 

vy         of       them      all.         "Rule,  Bri  -  tan  -  nial  Bri- 


ff— 3          JV         j 1 3          •     i     -| [- 


i 


^(     .-  .  _     M *l  - 


f=i 


=£ 


7         I 


5    3  3 


f 


fl 


578 


OU2i   FAMILIAR   SONGS. 


Rule,   Britan-nia  I    Bri  -  tan-nia,rule  the  waves ; 


Bri  -  tons 

i          i 


uev 

t   • 


-    er  will     be  slaves. 
£*-       * 


Still  more  majestic  shalt  thou  rise, 

More  dreadful  from  each  foreign  stroke  ; 
As  the  loud  blast,  that  tears  the  skies, 
U :  Serves  but  to  root  thy  native  oak.  :|| 
Rule,  Britannia !  etc. 

Thee,  haughty  tyrants  ne'er  shall  tame ; 
All  their  attempts  to  bend  thee  down, 
Will  but  arouse  thy  gen'rous  flame, 
|:  To  work  their  woe,  and  thy  renown.  :|| 
Rule,  Britannia !  etc. 


3. 

To  thee  belongs  the  rural  reign, 

Thy  cities  shall  with  commerce  shine  ; 
All  thine,  shall  be  the  subject  main, 
|| :  And  ev'ry  shore  it  circles,  thine.  :|| 
Rule,  Britannia !  etc. 

The  muses,  still  with  freedom  found, 

Shall  to  thy  happy  coast  repair ; 
Blest  Isle!  with  matchless  beauty  crown'd, 
||:  And  manly  hearts  to  guard  the  fair.  :|| 
Rule,  Britannia !  etc. 


GOD  SAVE  THE  KING. 

THE  origin  of  this  national  song  of  Great  Britain  has  been  matter  for  endless  discus- 
Bion.  The  most  generally  accepted  theory  seems  to  be,  that  the  words  were  written  by 
HENRY  CARET,  author  of  "  Sally  in  our  Alley,"  for  James  II.,  the  exiled  King,  and  that  it 
was  revived  and  sung  during  the  rebellions  of  1715  and  1745,  and  then  silenced  by  the 
failure  of  the  Jacobites,  until  it  reappeared  with  the  reading  "  God  save  Great  George,  our 
King,"  substituted  for  the  original  one,  which  is  admitted  to  be  "God  save  Great  James,  our 
King."  On  no  other  hypothesis  could  a  meaning  be  found  for  the  lines : 

"  Send  him  victorious 
Long  to  reign  over  us," 

- 

"  O  Lord,  our  God,  arise, 
Scatter  his  enemies, 

And  make  them  fall. 
Confound  their  politics, 
Frustrate  their  knavish  tricks,"  etc. 

Even  this  interpretation  hardly  explains  the  allusions  of  the  last  two  lines  given,  which 
probably  refer  to  the  gunpowder  plot. 

Richard  Clark,  a  well-known  English  composer,  wrote  a  defence  of  Carey's  claim,  but 
subsequently  was  shaken  in  his  belief,  and  devoted  eight  years  to  research  on  the  subject, 
when  he  published  a  book  (London,  1821)  in  which  he  asserts  that  the  anthem  was  writ- 
ten in  the  reign  of  James  I.,  by  Ben  Jonson,  who  was  Poet  Laureate.  He  says  it  was 
written  at  the  particular  request  of  the  Merchant  Tailors'  Company,  and  was  sung  in  their 


GOD    SAVE    THE   KING. 

hall  at  the  first  public  appearance  of  King  James  after  the  discovery  of  the  gunpowder  plot 
He  emphasizes  the  «  knavish  tricks/'  and  the  political  enemies  who  concocted  them,  and 
shows  that  these  very  forms  of  expression  were  introduced  into  the  Church's  thanksgivings 
and  prayers  for  the  monarch's  escape  and  continued  safety;  but  he  does  not  explain  the 
force  of  having  the  King  «  sent  victorious."  He  accounts  in  two  ways  for  the  want  of 
certainty  on  this  point,  by  showing  that  the  property  of  the  hall  was  destroyed  in  the  great 
fire  of  1666,  or  by  the  supposition  that  Jonson  may  have  destroyed  the  anthem  himself; 
for,  after  his  duel  with  Spencer,  the  actor,  he  was  committed  to  prison,  where  he  was 
converted  to  Catholicism,  in  which  faith  he  remained  for  twelve  years,  during  which  time 
the  monarch  who  had  ordered  the  translation  of  our  present  English  Bible,  would  be  less 
giorious  in  his  eyes.  One  thing  which  seems  to  favor  this  rather  startling  theory,  is,  that 
the  music  is  attributed  by  nearly  all  authorities  to  Dr.  Bull,  who  was  a  famous  composer 
of  that  reign,  and  some  of  whose  music  was  known  to  have  been  produced  at  this  meeting 
in  the  Tailors'  Hall. 

Is  it  not  possible  that  Ben  Jonson  did  write  the  anthem,  with  a  different  fourth  line 'in 
the  first  stanza,  and  that,  being  a  genuine  poet,  he  thought  so  slightly  of  a  production 
which  is  utterly  worthless  as  poetry,  that  he  did  not  take  the  trouble  to  claim  it  1  And 
when  he  changed  his  faith,  he  might  have  been  glad  that  his  wretched  verses  had  been 
burned,  and  only  wished  that  the  many  similar  ones  he  must  have  written,  as  laureate, 
had  shared  their  fate.  But  these  had  been  sung  by  a  great  chorus  of  "  the  gentlemen  and 
children  of  the  royal  chapel."  These  children  would  remember  a  song  learned  for  so  great 
an  occasion,  and  from  them  it  would  descend  orally.  Perhaps,  then,  Henry  Carey  took  the 
song,  which  it  has  never  been  shown  that  he  personally  claimed,  wrote  a  new  line  to  give 
an  especial  Jacobite  twist  to  the  sentiments,  and  set  it  afloat  to  the  praise  of  the  exiled 
house  of  Stuart.  It  is  believed  that  he  sang  it  in  public  at  this  time,  and  in  1714,  when 
Dr.  Arne  is  known  to  have  re-arranged  the  air,  it  is  certain  that  he  sang  it  again  publicly, 
with  "  Great  George  our  King"  substituted,  but  with  all  the  other  incongruities  remaining; 
for  the  accession  of  George  I.  was  peaceful  and  undisputed.  Gary's  life  of  eighty  yeara 
extended  through  the  reigns  of  Charles  II.,  James  II.,  William  and  Mary,  Queen  Anne,  and 
two  of  the  Georges. 

Carey's  son,  born  in  the  year  of  his  father's  death,  stoutly  contended  for  his  father's 
authorship  of  music  as  well  as  words,  and  made  an  attempt  to  get  a  pension  on  the 
strength  of  it,  which  attempt  he  thus  describes :  "  Reflecting  on  its  utility,  and  convinced 
of  its  having  been  written  by  my  father,  I  thought  there  could  be  no  harm  in  endeavoring, 
through  some  medium  or  other,  to  make  myself  known  at  Windsor  as  sou  of  the  author 
of  '  God  save  the  King/  and  as  great  families  create  great  wants,  it  is  natural  to  wish 
for  some  little  relief.  Accordingly,  I  was  advised  to  beg  the  interference  of  a  gentleman 
residing  in  the  purlieus  of  the  Castle,  and  who  is  forever  seen  bowing  and  scraping  in  the 
King's  walks,  that  he  would  be  kind  enough  to  explain  this  matter  rightly  to  the  sovereign, 
thinking  it  was  not  improbable  but  that  some  consideration  might  have  taken  place  and 
some  little  compliment  been  bestowed  on  the  offspring  of  one  'who  had  done  the  state 
some  service.'  But,  alas !  no  sooner  did  I  move  in  the  business  with  the  greatest  humility  to 
this  demi-cannon,  but  he  opened  his  copious  mouth  as  wide  as  a  four-mid-twrnty  pounder, 
bursting  as  loudly  upon  me  as  the  largest  piece  of  ordnance,  with  his  chin  cocked  up,  lil«-  tlm 
little  centre  figure,  with  his  cauliflower-wig,  in  Banbury's  Country  Club,  exclaiming,  <  Sir,  I 
do  not  see,  because  your  father  was  the  author  of  <  God  save  the  King/  that  the  King  is  under 
any  obligation  to  his  son/  I  am  convinced,  had  my  plea  been  fairly  stated  at  a  great  ant 
good  man's  house,  I  should  have  had  a  princely  answer;  but  in  respect  to  myself,  I  may 
have  by-and-by  to  say,  like  Cardinal  Wolsey,  that 

•  I  urn  weary  and  old,  left  to  the  mercy 
Of  a  rude  stream  that  must  forever  hide  me.'  " 


580 


OUR   FAMILIAR   SONGS. 


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2.    O          Lord       our 
3.  Thy       choic    -  est 

f              4             "*" 

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gra    - 
God 
gifts 

i  —  0—  
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cious    King, 
a    -    rise, 
in       store, 

Long       live         our       no 
Scat    -    ter          his        en 
On          him        be       pleas'd 

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God      save      the    King! 
And    make   them    fall. 
Long    may       he    reign! 

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Send    him 
Con  -  found 
May      he 

j-t    * 

vie  -    to       -       ri  -    ous,  Hap    -   py       and 
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de  -  fend            our    laws,  And       ev    -     er 

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Long       to         reign 
On       Thee      our 
To         sing      with 

•O.  J^1 

o       -       ver      us, 
hopes           w«     fix  ; 
heart           and  voice, 

•*"            fr       •?" 

God      save      the 
God     save      the 
God      save      the 

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King. 
King. 
King. 

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II 

DIXIE. 

THE  only  version  of  the  famous  song  of  "Dixie"  which  has  the  least  literary  merit 
is  the  original  one  we  give,  which  was  written  by  GENERAL  ALBERT  PIKE.  It  is  worthy 
of  notice  that  the  finest  Puritan  lyric  we  have  was  written  by  an  Englishwoman,  Mrs. 
Hemans,  and  the  most  famous  if  not  the  finest  Southern  war-song  was  written  by  a  native 
of  Massachusetts.  Albert  Pike  was  born  in  Boston.  December  29,  1809,  but  most  of  his 
boyhood  was  spent  in  Newburyport.  He  became  u  teacher,  but  in  1831  visited  the  then 
wild  country  of  the  Southwest  with  a  party  of  trappers.  He  afterward  edited  a  paper  at 
Little  Rock,  and  studied  law.  He  served  in  the  Mexican  war  with  some  distinction,  and 
on  the  breaking  out  of  the  Rebellion  enlisted,  on  the  Confederate  side,  a  force  of  Cherokee 
Indians,  whom  he  led  at  the  battle  of  Pea  Ridge.  After  the  war  he  edited  the  Memphis 
Appeal  till  1868,  when  he  settled  in  Washington  as  a  lawyer.  His  "Hymns  to  the  Gods," 
published  in  Blackwood's  Magazine,  gave  him  a  place  among  the  earlier  American  poets. 

The  original  song  of  "  Dixie"  was  the  composition  of  Dan  D.  Emmett,  of  Bryant's 
minstrels,  and  was  first  sung  in  New  York  in  1860.  A  writer  in  the  Charleston  Courier, 
under  date  of  June  11,  1861,  says  it  is  an  old  Northern  negro  air,  and  that  the  words 
referred  to  one  Dix,  or  Dixy,  who  had  an  estate  on  Manhattan  Island,  now  New  York 
city.  Another  theory  is,  that  the  name  Dixie's  Land  was  suggested  by  Mason  and 
Dixon's  line,  of  which  so  much  was  said  in  the  days  of  slavery  agitation.  The  first  words 
used  for  the  song  in  the  South  were  from  a  poem  entitled  "The  Star  of  the  West,"  pub- 
lished in  the  Charleston  Mercury  early  in  1861 


DIXIE' S   LAND. 


581 


1.  Southrons,  hear     your 

2.  For     Dix-  ie's     land       we 

3.  Hear  the   North-  ern 


coun-try  call  you!  Up  !  lest  worse  than  death  be-fall  you!  To 
take  ourstand,And  live  or  die  for  Dix  -  ic!  To 
thunders  mut-  ter  1  Northern  flags  in  South  wind  flutter  ;  To 


m 


arms!  to  arras!  to  arms  in  Dix-ie!  Lo!  all  the  bea-  con  -  fires  are  light-  ed, 
arms!  to  arms!  to  arms  in  Dix-ie!  And  con-quer  peace  for  Dix  •  ic,  And 
arms!  to  arms!  to  arms  in  Dix-ie!  Fear  no  dan-ger!  shun  no  la-bor! 


s 


^ 


an 


&= 

g    . 

i-£           i 
tfc  1 

p  —  *— 

<r     "    ! 

Let  all  hearts  be  now  u-nit-ed,  To  arms! 
con-quer  peace  for  Dix  -  ie!  To  arms! 
Lift  up  ri  -  fle,  pike,  and  sa-bre!  To  arms! 


to 
to 
to 


arms! 

arms 

arms! 


to     arms         in 
to     arms 
to     arms 


Dix-le! 
Dix  -  ie! 
Dix-ie! 


CHORUS. 


A'  -SSS^  3  B£:b£!  K:g!  gj^ 

Lift  up       ri  -  fle,  pike     and      sa  -  bre  I 


Ad  -  vance  the  flag 
And  conquer  peace 
Lift  up  ri  -  fle,  pike 


of 
for 
and 


582 


OUR   FAMILIAR 


m 


Dix  -   ie!         Ad    -  vance     the     flag  of  Dix  -  iel  Hur-  rah!  hur-  rah! 

Dix  -   ie!        And  con  -  quer  peace  for  Dix  -   iel  Hur-  rah!  hur-  rah! 

sa  -  brc!    Lift       up  ri  -   fl«,    pike  and  sa  -   brel  Hur-  rah  I  hur-  rah? 

N 


9 
Ad- 
And 
Lilt  up 


I 


e=£ 


^E 


i 


? 


U—U 

w     w 

Ad  -  vance  the  flag  of  Dix  -  ie  ! 
And  con-quer  peace  for  Dix  -iel 
Lift  up  ri-  fle,  pike  and  sa-brel 
N 


vance  the  flag       in  Dix  -  ie !  Hur  -  rah !  hur  -  rah ! 

conquer  peace    for  Dix-ie!  Hur -rah!  hur-  rah! 

ri  -  fle,  pike     and  sa  -  bre  I  Hur  -  rah !  hur  -  rah ! 

JL 


Southrons,  hear  your  country  call  you ! 
Up !  lest  worse  than  death  befall  you : 

To  arms !  to  arms !  to  arms  in  Dixie ! 
Lo  !  all  beacon  fires  are  lighted, 
Let  our  hearts  be  now  united  : 

To  arms  !  to  arms  !  to  arms  in  Dixie  ! 

Advance  the  flag  of  Dixie ! 

Hurrah!     Hurrah! 
For  Dixie's  land  we'll  take  our  stand, 

To  live  or  die  for  Dixie  ! 
To  arms  !     To  arms ! 

And  conquer  peace  for  Dixie ! 
To  arms  !  to  arms  ! 

And  conquer  peace  for  Dixie  ! 

Hear  the  Northern  thunders  mutter ! 
Northern  flags  in  south  wind  flutter! 

To  arms  !  to  arms  !  to  arms  in  Dixie ! 
Send  them  back  your  fierce  defiance  ! 
Stamp  upon  the  cursed  alliance  ! 

To  arms  !  to  arms  in  Dixie  ! 
Advance  the  flag  of  Dixie  ! 

Fear  no  danger!  shun  no  labor! 
Lift  up  rifle,  pike,  and  sabre ! 

To  arms  !  to  arms !  to  arms  in  Dixie  ! 
Shoulder  pressing  close  to  shoulder, 
Let  the  odds  make  each  heart  bolder : 

To  arms  !  to  arms  !  to  arms  in  Dixie  ! 
Advance  the  flag  of  Dixie ! 

How  the  South's  great  heart  rejoices, 
At  your  cannon's  ringing  voices : 

To  arms !  to  arms !  to  arms  in  Dixie ! 
For  faith  betrayed  and  pledges  broken, 
Wrongs  inflicted,  insults  spoken  : 

To  arms !  to  arms  !  to  arms  in  Dixie  ! 
Advance  the  flag  of  Dixie ! 


Strong  as  lions,  swift  as  eagles, 

Back  to  their  kennels  hunt  these  beagles  ! 

To  arms  !  to  arms  !  to  arms  in  Dixie ! 
Cut  the  unequal  bonds  asunder ! 
Let  them  hence  each  other  plunder : 

To  arms !  to  arms  !  to  arms  in  Dixie  ! 
Advance  the  flag  of  Dixie ! 

Swear  upon  your  country's  altar, 
Never  to  give  up  or  falter ; 

To  arms !  to  arms  I  to  arms  in  Dixie  ! 
Till  the  spoilers  are  defeated, 
Till  the  Lord's  work  is  completed, 

To  arms !  to  arms  !  to  arms  in  Dixie  ! 
Advance  the  flag  of  Dixie  ! 

Halt  not  till  our  Federation, 

Secures  among  earth's  powers  its  station! 

To  arms  !  to  arms  !  to  arms  in  Dixie  ! 
Then  at  peace,  and  crowned  with  glory, 
Hear  your  children  tell  the  story  ! 

To  arms  !  to  arms  !  to  arms  in  Dixie  ! 
Advance  the  flag  of  Dixie  ! 

If  the  loved  ones  weep  in  sadness, 
Victory  soon  shall  bring  them  gladness. 

To  arms!  to  arms!  to  arms  in  Dixie! 
Exultant  pride  soon  banish  sorrow; 
Smiles  chase  tears  away  to-morrow. 

To  arms  !  to  arms  !  to  arms  in  Dixie  ! 

Advance  the  flag  of  Dixie ! 

Hurrah  !  Hurrah  ! 
For  Dixie's  land  we'll  take  our  stand, 

To  live  or  die  for  Dixie  ! 

To  arms  !  to  arms  ! 

And  conquer  peace  for  Dixie  ! 

To  arms !  to  arms  ! 
And  conquer  peace  for  Dixie  ! 


YANKEE  DOODLE.  583 

YANKEE    DOODLE. 

THE  air  of  "Yankee  Doodle"  is  claimed  by  several  nations.  It  is  said  to  be  an  old 
vintage-song  of  the  south  of  France.  In  Holland,  when  the  laborers  received  for  wages 
"  as  much  buttermilk  as  they  could  drink,  and  a  tenth  of  the  grain,"  they  used  to  sing  as 
they  reaped,  to  the  tune  of  "  Yankee  Doodle,"  the  words : 

"Tanker,  dudel,  doodle  down, 

Diddle,  dudel,  lanther, 

Yanke  viver,  voover  vown, 

Botermilk  und  tanther." 

A  letter  from  the  American  Secretary  of  Legation,  dated  Madrid,  June  3,  1858,  says  i 
"  The  tune  of  '  Yankee  Doodle/  from  the  first  of  my  showing  it  here,  has  been  acknow- 
ledged, by  persons  acquainted  with  music,  to  bear  a  strong  resemblance  to  the  popular  airs 
of  Biscay  ;  and  yesterday  a  professor  from  the  north  recognized  it  as  being  much  like  the 
ancient  sword-dance  played  on  solemn  occasions  by  the  people  of  San  Sebastian.  He  says 
the  tune  varies  in  those  provinces.  Our  national  air  certainly  has  its  origin  in  the  music  of 
the  free  Pyrenees ;  the  first  strains  are  identically  those  of  the  heroic  Danza  Esparta  of 
brave  old  Biscay." 

The  tune  was  sung  in  England  in  the  reign  of  Charles  I.,  to  a  rhyme  which  is  stlU 
alive  in  our  nurseries : 

"  Lucy  Locket  lost  her  pocket, 

Kitty  Fisher  found  it— 
Nothing  in  it,  nothing  on  it, 
But  the  binding  round  it." 

After  the  uprising  of  Cromwell  against  Charles,  the  air  was  sung  by  the  cavaliers  in 
ridicule  of  Cromwell,  who  was  said  to  have  ridden  into  Oxford  on  a  small  horse,  with  his 
single  plume  fastened  into  a  sort  of  knot,  which  was  derisively  called  a  "  macaroni."  The 
words  were : 

"  Yankee  Doodle  came  to  town, 

Upon  a  Kentish  pony ; 
He  stuck  a  feather  in  his  cap, 
Upon  a  macaroni." 

The  tune  first  appeared  in  this  country  in  June,  1755.  The  British  general,  Braddock, 
was  assembling  the  colonists  near  Albany,  for  an  attack  on  the  French  and  Indians  al 
forts  Niagara  and  Frontenac.  In  marched 

The  old  Continentals, 

In  their  ragged  regimentals, 

or  in  no  regimentals  at  all ;  but  wearing  all  the  fashions  of  two  hundred  years,  and  with 
arms  as  quaint.  The  martial  baud  to  which  they  took  their  uneven  steps  played  music  that 
the  British  soldiers  might  have  heard  their  great-grandfathers  speak  of.  For  generations 
the  swords  of  our  noble  ancestors  had  been  turned  to  pruning-hooks,  and  they  had  for- 
gotten  war  and  the  fashion  of  it. 

There  was  in  the  British  camp  a  Dr.  P;  chard  Shuckburg,  regimental  surgeon,  afterward 
appointed  Secretary  of  Indian  affairs  by  Sir  William  Johnson.  This  piecer-up  of  broken 
humanity  was  a  wit  and  a  musical  genius,  and  the  patchwork  appearance  of  these  new 
subjects  amused  him  mightily.  As  they  marched  into  the  handsome  and  orderly  British 
lines,  the  traditional  picture  of  Cromwell  on  the  Kentish  pony,  with  a  macaroni  to  hold  his 
single  plume,  came  into  mind  in  contrast  with  the  extravagant  elegance  of  Charles  aud  his 
cavaliers,  and  he  planned  a  joke  upon  the  instant.  He  set  down  the  notes  of  "  Yankee 
Doodle," 'wrote  along  them  the  lively  travesty  upon  Cromwell,  and  gave  them  to  the 
uncouth  musicians  as  the  latest  martial  music  of  England.  The  baud  quickly  caught  the 
simple  and  contagious  air,  and  soon  it  sounded  through  the  camp  amid  the  laughter  of  the 
British  soldiers. 


664 


OUK   FAMILIAR   SONGS. 


It  was  a  prophetic  piece  of  fun,  and  its  significance  became  apparent  twenty-five  years 
later,  when,  to  the  tune  of  "  Yankee  Doodle,"  Lord  Cornwallis  marched  into  the  lines  of 
these  same  old  Continentals  to  surrender  his  army  and  his  sword.  What  Cromwell  proved 
to  the  godless  army  of  Charles,  with  — 

"  Their  perfumed  satin  clothes,  their  catches  and  their  oaths, 
Their  stage-plays  and  their  sonnets,  their  diamonds  and  their  spades," 

that  our  ancestors  were  to  the  royai  oppressors  of  liberty.    With  Cromwell's  rout,  our  sol- 
diers could  exclaim — 

"  The  Kings  of  earth  in  fear,  shall  tremble  when  they  hear 
What  the  hand  of  God  hath  wrought  for  the  Houses  and  the  Word." 

Throughout  our  Kevolution  the  song  that  tyranny  had  made  to  ridicule  the  champion  of 
religious  and  political  freedom,  was  the  march  to  greater  victories  of  the  same  principles. 


_J2  N_ 

1.   Fa  -  ther   and       I     went  down     to    camp,    A  -   long  with       Cap'n       I 
2.  And  there   we       see      a       thou-sand   men,    As      rich     as         Squire 
3.  The    'lass  -  es     they     eat       ev  -  'ry     day,  Would  keep      a      house     a 

-r  —^~ 

3ood     -     in',    And 
Dav     -      id  ;    And 
win     -      ter  ;  They 

1        N     1          N 

V\'    O 

€J-    Is     -i           !                                      \                                       j 

C>  2f           ^i                             *                              &       ' 

•                 , 

—  ^  —  =  —  "~zd 

—  F  F  — 

there     we     saw     the      men     and     boys      As      thick       as        has    -    ty 
what   they  wast  -  ed         ev  -   'ry       day,       I       wish        it       could       be 
have     so     much  that,      I'll       be    bound,  They      eat          it      when  they've 

pud     -      din', 
sav     -       ed. 
mind            ter. 

J  1  1  

Jgig»JJI                       4 

JJ 

-1 

IHi  1  r  r    '  T  1  >'    '    L    ' 

•     1*                 i*          | 

3              !™J                  u 

1                  I 

/rk  J—  :  •-  —  J  J  *  ^  ^  J—  :  r  —  J-  P- 

j  

i^B  —                                   —  ^  —                             —  b  —               —  4—              —  ^  £  — 

—  -4—      —4— 

Yan   -    kee  Doo  -  die,      keep        it         up,                  Yan   -    kee  Doo  -  die 

dan     -       dy, 

'J              -*-*•«               ^.^L^L             J.J.J. 

U   J            1^             ij         —  i 

1  '^"^  j  j  ^  

a                    •  • 

YANKEE  DOODLE. 

/TS 


585 


2 


£ 


3 


Mind        the   mu  -   sic        and       the       step,      And     with     the    girls      be       han     -     dy. 


CHORUS. 


Cho. 


Cho. 


And  there  I  see  a  swamping  gun, 
Large  as  a  log  of  maple, 

Upon  a  deuced  little  cart, 
A  load  for  father's  cattle. 


And  every  time  they  shoot  it  off, 
It  takes  a  horn  of  powder, 

And  makes  a  noise  like  father's  gun, 
Only  a  nation  louder. 

I  went  as  nigh  to  one  myself 

As  'Siah's  underpinning; 
And  father  went  as  nigh  agin, 

I  thought  the  deuce  was  in  him. 


Cho. 


Cho. 


Cousin  Simon  grew  so  bold, 

I  thought  he  would  have  cocked  it ; 
It  scared  me  so  I  shrinked  it  off 

And  hung  by  father's  pocket. 

And  Cap'n  Davis  had  a  gun, 
He  kind  of  clapt  his  hand  ou't, 

And  stuck  a  crooked  stabbing  iron 
Upon  the  little  end  on'L 

And  there  I  see  a  pumpkin  shell 
As  big  as  mother's  bason ; 

And  every  time  they  touched  it  off 
They  scampered  like  the  nation. 


586 


OUR   FAMILIAR   SONGS. 


I  see  a  little  barrel  too, 

The  heads  were  made  of  leather ; 
They  knocked  upon  't  with  little  clubs 

And  called  the  folks  together. 


Cho. 


And  there  was  Cap'n  Washington, 
And  gentle  folks  about  him; 

They  say  he's  grown  so  'tarnal  proud, 
He  will  not  ride  without  'em. 


Cho. 


He  got  him  on  his  meeting  clothes 
Upon  a  slapping  stallion, 

He  set  the  world  along  in  rows, 
In  hundreds  and  in  millions. 


Oc. 


Cho. 


The  flaming  ribbons  in  his  hat, 
They  looked  so  taring  fine,  ah, 

I  wanted  dreadfully  to  get 
To  give  to  my  Jemima. 


I  see  another  snarl  of  men 
A  digging  graves,  they  told  me, 

So  'tarnal  long,  so  'tarnal  deep, 
They  'tended  they  should  hold  me- 


Cho. 


Cho. 


It  scared  me  so  1  hooked  it  off, 
Nor  stopped,  as  I  remember, 

Nor  turned  about  till  I  got  home, 
Locked  up  in  mother's  chamber. 


HAIL,    COLUMBIA! 

THE  author  of  the  words  of  "  Hail  Columbia,"  JOSEPH  HOPKINSON,  was  born  in  Philadel- 
phia, Penn  ,  November  12,  1770.  He  was  educated  at  the  University  of  Pennsylvania,  anft 
became  a  lawyer  of  distinction  in  his  native  city.  He  was  a  promoter  of  the  cause  of 
liberal  education,  and  to  his  kindly  personal  traits  we  owe  this  famous  national  song.  He 
died  in  Philadelphia,  January  15,  1842.  I  quote  his  account  of  the  origin  of  "  Hail  Colum- 
bia." "  This  song  was  written  in  the  summer  of  1798,  when  a  war  with  France  was  thought 
to  be  inevitable.  Congress  being  then  in  session  in  Philadelphia,  deliberating  upon  that 
important  subject,  and  acts  of  hostility  having  actually  occurred.  The  contest  between 
England  and  France  was  raging,  and  the  people  of  the  United  States  were  divided  into 
parties  for  one  side  or  the  other;  some  thinking  that  policy  and  duty  required  us  to  take 
part  with  republican  France,  as  the  war  was  called ;  others  were  for  our  connecting  our- 
selves with  England,  under  the  belief  that  she  was  the  great  preservative  power  of  good 
principles  and  safe  government.  The  violation  of  our  rights  by  both  belligerents  was 
forcing  us  from  the  just  and  wise  policy  of  President  Washington,  which  was  to  do  equal 
justice  to  both,  to  take  part  with  neither,  but  to  keep  a  strict  and  honest  neutrality  between 
them.  The  prospect  of  a  rupture  with  France  was  exceedingly  offensive  to  the  portion  of 
the  people  who  espoused  her  cause,  and  the  violence  of  the  spirit  of  party  has  never  risen 
higher,  I  think  not  so  high,  as  it  did  at  that  time,  on  that  question.  The  theatre  was  then 
open  in  our  city :  a  young  man  belonging  to  it,  whose  talent  was  as  a  singer,  was  about  to 
take  his  benefit.  I  had  known  him  when  he  was  at  school.  On  this  acquaintance,  he 
called  on  me  on  Saturday  afternoon,  his  benefit  being  announced  for  the  following  Monday. 
He  said  he  had  twenty  boxes  untaken,  and  his  prospect  was  that  he  should  suffer  a  loss 
instead  of  receiving  a  benefit  from  the  performance ;  but  that  if  he  could  get  a  patriotic 
song  adapted  to  the  tune  of  the  '  President's  March,'  then  the  popular  air,  he  did  not  doubt 
of  a  full  house;  that  the  poets  of  the  theatrical  corps  had  been  trying  to  accomplish  it, 
but  were  satisfied  that  no  words  could  be  composed  to  suit  the  music  of  that  march.  I 
told  him  I  would  try  for  him.  He  came  the  next  afternoon,  and  the  song,  such  as  it  is, 
was  ready  for  him.  It  was  announced  on  Monday  morning,  and  the  theatre  was  crowded  to 


BAIL,     COLUMBIA! 


58? 


excess  and  so  continued,  night  after  night,  for  the  rest  of  the  whole  season  the 
scored  and  repeated  many  times  each  night,  the  audience  joining  in  the  ± 
also  sung  at  inght  m  the  streets  by  large  assemblies  of  citizens,  including  members™ 

usiasm  ™  ~ ' aud  the  «•  «  ™> '  T  •*?*  SKi 

«  The  object  of  the  author  was  to  get  up  an  American  spirit,  which  should  be  inde- 
pendent  of  and  above  the  interests,  passions,  and  policy  of  both  belligerents,  and  look  and 
feel  exclusively  for  our  own  honor  and  rights.    Not  an  allusion  is  made  to  either  France 
Enghmd,  or  the  quarrel  between  them,  or  to  what  was  the  most  in  fault  in  their  treat- 
ment of  us.     Of  course  the  song  found  favor  with  both  parties- at  least,  neither  could 
Irsown  the  sentiments  it  inculcated.    It  was  truly  American  and  nothing  else  and  the 
patriotic  feelings  of  every  American  heart  responded  to  it. 

"  Such  is  the  history  of  the  song,  which  has  endured  infinitely  beyond  any  expectation 
the  author,  and  beyond  any  merit  it  can  boast  of,  except  that  of  being  truly  and 
exclusively  patriotic  in  its  sentiments  and  spirit." 

The  music  of  "  Hail,  Columbia"  was  written  as  a  march,  and  went  at  first  by  the  name 
"  General  Washington's  March."  Later  it  was  called  "  The  President's  March,"  and  it 
was  played  in  1789,  when  Washington  came  to  New  York  to  be  inaugurated.  A  son  of 
Prof.  PHYLA  of  Philadelphia,  who  was  one  of  the  performers,  says  it  was  his  father's 
composition.  His  statement  is  given  by  William  McKay  of  Philadelphia.  Mr.  Custis,  the 
adopted  son  of  Washington,  mentions  its  having  been  composed  in  1789  by  a  German 
named  FATLES,  leader  of  the  orchestra,  and  musical  composer  for  the  old  John  street 
theatre,  in  New  York,  where  he  heard  it  played  as  a  new  piece  on  the  occasion  of  General 
Washington's  first  visit  at  this  play-house.  The  two  names  (Phyla  and  Fayles)  should,  no 
doubt,  be  identical,  and  the  stories  do  not  materially  contradict  each  other. 


1.  Hail,        Colum  -    bia,    hap  -  py  land!        Hail,        ye    he  -  roes,  heaven-born  band  I      Who 

2.  Im-mor    -  tal  Pa  -triots  !  rise  once  more  !  De  -fend    your  rights,  de-fend  your  shore;       Let 


--—'?- 


..  .-- 1 -pZfr. 


fought    and    bled        in      free  -  dom's  cause.Who  fought  and  bled        in        free  -  dom's  cause,  And 
no      rude    foe,    with      im  -  pious  hand,  Let     no      rude    foe,    with        im  -  pious  hand,      In  - 


OUR   FAMILIAR    SONGS. 

^^   — r^      ^  -      i - 


m-K^ 


when  the   storm    of      war    was    gone,  En  -    joyed    the    peace  your     val    -    or  won;          Let 
vade    the  shrine  where    sa  -  cred    lies,    Of       toil        and   blood  the     well  earned  prize  ;     While 


-t f f 


In    -de  -  pen  -  dence     be        your  boast,  Ev  -    er       mind  -ful    what     it      cost, 

off  -  'ring  peace,    sin  -  cere       and     just,    In    heav'n  we      place      a      man  -  ly      trust,  That 


— 


*=£=p* F— T— =3 

=^--*— »-— M 


Ev    -    er    grate  -  ful        for       the    prize,  Let      its         al  -    tar    reach    the  skies, 

truth    and   jus  -    tice      may       pre  -  vail,     And     ev    -  'ry    scheme  of       bon  -clage    fail ! 


£l      •~~£ »:=$-*—Z=*—t-:2 iF^r^-f12 :— J^^^t3* *— -^ ?- 

i-       -       *        f=+^--^=|pi        i|:=4==J==$=S=r|—  4=: 


^^=  ^rf 

ZZIIZIZ* 9 » 3 


CHORUS. 


-»•  .       -0-      -»•  '    •*•  •*• 


Firm,      u  -  nit  -  ed,      let        us        be, 


Rally  -  ing  round  our     lib    -  er  -   ty, 


flte 


3 


As         a       band        of        broth  -ers  join'd, 


^ 


•  » 


^=^' 


Peace     and    safe  -    ty      we     shall  find. 

is  2  •*-     •*•     •••  •    -^    •*• 

--  *  —  -  '  -  T"t~~ 


• 


HAIL,   COLUMBIA! 


Sound,  sound  the  trump  of  fame ! 
Let  Washington's  great  name 
Ring  through  the  world  with  loud  applause  ! 
Ring  through  the  world  with  loud  applause ! 
Let  every  clime,  to  freedom  dear, 
Listen  with  a  joyful  ear; 
With  equal  skill,  with  steady  power, 
He  governs  in  the  fearful  hour 
Of  horrid  war,  or  guides  with  ease 
The  happier  time  of  honest  peace. 
Firm,  united,  etc. 


589 


Behold  the  chief,  who  now  commands, 
Once  more  to  serve  his  country  stands, 
The  rock  on  which  the  storm  will  beat, 
The  rock  on  which  the  storm  will  beat  I 
But  armed  in  virtue,  firm  and  true, 
His  hopes  are  fixed  on  Heaven  and  you ; 
When  hope  was  sinking  in  dismay, 
When  gloom  obscured  Columbia's  day, 
His  steady  mind,  from  changes  free, 
Resolved  on  death  or  Liberty. 
Firm,  united,  etc. 


ADAMS  AND   LIBERTY. 

ROBERT  TREAT  PAINE,  JR.,  author  of  "  Adams  and  Liberty,"  was  born  in  Taunton, 
Mass.,  December  9,  1778.  His  father  was  a  signer  of  the  Declaration  of  Independence! 
Paine's  name  was  originally  Thomas ;  but  he  appealed  to  the  Legislature  to  allow  him 
to  take  that  of  his  father,  Robert,  on  the  ground  that  since  Tom  Paine  had  borne 
tt  he  "  had  no  Christian  name."  He  was  graduated  at  Harvard,  and  gave  promise  of  an 
uii.isually  bright  intellect.  But  he  was  vain,  lazy,  and  vicious,  and  would  do  no  work,  even 
with  his  pen,  except  when  compelled  by  poverty.  He  married  an  actress,  and  was  denied 
his  father's  house  and  purse.  He  received  enormous  sums  for  his  productions.  His  "  Inven- 
tion of  Letters  "  brought  him  five  dollars  a  line ;  and  for  "  Adams  and  Liberty  "  he  received 
seven  hundred  and  fifty  dollars,  a  fabulous  sum  for  the  time.  Paine  died  in  the  attic  of 
his  father's  house,  November  11,  1811. 

After  "Adams  and  Liberty"  was  written,  Paine  was  dining  with  Major  Benjamin  Russell 
of  the  Sentinel,  when  he  was  told  that  his  song  had  no  mention  of  Washington.  The  host 
said  he  could  not  fill  his  glass  until  the  error  had  been  corrected,  whereupon  the  author, 
after  a  moment's  thinking,  scratched  off  the  last  stanza  of  the  song  as  it  now  stands. 

The  air  to  which  the  words  were  written  is  an  old  English  hunting-tune  entitled 
"  Anacreon  in  Heaven."  It  was  composed  by  SAMUEL  ARNOLD  who  was  born  iu  Oxford, 
England,  August  10,  1740,  received  a  fine  musical  education,  and  before  he  was  twenty- 
three  years  old  was  composer  for  Covent  Garden  Theatre.  He  became  organist  to  the 
King,  composer  for  the  chapels  royal,  and  conductor  of  the  Academy  of  Ancient  Music. 
He  died  October  22,  1802. 


V  *i 

1  1 

—  1—  =M  ^=a-'  —  i  —  !  1 

i               ^    •  •  -Vn 

(6}4-  —  Is       s 

1  2  — 

*         *         ~        *      >        "i 
—I  1  *  *  -4  1  #*— 

-tf»  0  m  4 

^*  73.     ^-i  f-f    a-1 
k  —  -I/               LJ 

1.  Ye             sons       of        Co  - 
2.  In       a       clime    whose   rich 
3.  The             fame       of       our 

*-*••*-•*         -f- 

*^__^          "~—^                      *     **          iX^-^i? 

lum  -    bia,        who        brave    -   ly       have  fought       For    those 
vales              feed     the  marts       of       the  .world.           Whose 
arms,               of      our  laws      the      mild    sway.            Had 

>-  —  -u 

*  ;  

^^^    .*  'i     h-  '-t 

f  *      3 

590 


OUR    FAMILIAR    SONGS. 


1  1  —  -. 

JL  ,  —  *  _  —  g  —  —  jj  —  «  —  •  —  —  J        -h  |  -|- 

q       --N    -A       ,       -j       "*~i 

rights  which     un  -    stain'd      from  your  sires    have         de  -scend  -  ed,    May  you    long     taste   the 
shores    are        un  -    shak     -     en    by       Eu  -  rope's      com  -  mo  -  tion,     The           tri   -  dent     of 
just  -    ly          en   -     no     -     bled  our      na   -    tion         in       sto  -   ry,    Till   the    dark    clouds    of 

».   ,    J     *     *  f   J    ».     h            ~~v   *   J     * 

S/  1  f  —  jHg?  p-  Ti  —  T  j.-;  *  I"*  1  1  [—  |  1  *  —  q 

x   *  •    p    fj,  it       U   u  "  *•  f          J_..> 

11                         I 

ii^  ^ 

V  —  * 

—  ~F  ^  j~T~    '               ~f*       ~^  —  I 
*,  .    €    I  ...  xa                  J           M 

bless  -  ings  your       val    -    or        has  bought,       And  your    sons    reap    the         soil       which  your 
com  -merce  should    nev   -    er        be    hurl'd           To      in  -crease    the      le     -      git       -     i  -  mate 
fac  -    tion    ob  -   scured     our    young  day,           And    en  -  vel   -  op'd    the         sun            of       A  - 

t)-<                   f    P              L                                    -    *  **  '  • 

-                u1     !                      r       -!  ill               v       in*       i* 

-:  ^  t^H-^—  K  1  1 
'  *  f  —  T  ~Z~-  f           *  1 

|$5=3=r-:^r  -=£^=££*=$  —  L-U 

\F  •     •-*    *-*-$      $-      -^            -5                  "U      >  '  1        U 
1        •    ^ 

fa  -  there       de  -  fend        ed;      'Mid  the      reign      of    mild  peace,       May   your      na    -tion      in  - 
pow'rsof        the        o    -    cean;    But  should   pi-    rates   in-  vade,       Tho'    in         thun  -  der       ar- 
mer  -    i    -     can     glo     -     ry  ;     But   let       trai  -    tors   be      told,        Who  their      coun  -  try    have 

*)•     ?~*~2'    '  1  f      *    ~i?  —  tf  ~~^~~     U  i  —  \r       -^  —  ^  — 

^  r"  i  —  J-4>  —  p  —  i-  —  =  ^  —  4- 

p  —  J  ,  ,  4  —  =fl 

fe_J_        _J  0  3Z  J      uj  d  A  *-  ^  rj—  ^J=^g       =H 

^7^                                 -  __  ^TT^             25 

crease,        With    the       glo  -       ry       of       Rome,           and     the       wis  -    dom      of       Greece; 
ray'd,           Let  "your      can    -    non     de    -    clare             the     free      char    -  ter        of       trade; 
sold,              And              bar    -    ter'd  their      God              for     his         im    -   age        in         gold, 

^t              i/'.^}             "^       F"_t:        j?  ••    {^    ..  Jt        p        |*r,..  •    _.         ^j 

And   ; 
For   C         ^c'er       shall        the             sons         of          Co               lum    -       bia           be 
That  ) 

i        J       i      J         J      J      J          J              Jd 

IC||  —  H  *—  »  —                                                         —  »~^  —    ~  '  »  —  a  —                    —  «  —       —  »  —  »*—  1 

J  -                                            —  *        g     •-         •      .  —                                                                     0            2* 

ADAMS  AND   LIBERTY.  59 1 


L  j—  -J  —  i—  «- 

-^  —  j  «  •  *z 

*            •- 

!=f          *_*.         *_' 

~B)  HI 

P-<-j     T'  *      —  r~1 

slaves,           While  the    earth      bears 

9  
\ 

— 

P 

&  »  «  

•            U 

lant,         or      the 

sea       rolls         a 

wave. 

PF-J                *••*      *       * 

»•    •••  m  %»•     •».•*•  -f-    *•  «    ^    •*• 

|  j  1          W     i     .  1  1           i     U  b«  —  r  —           B  1        1                  n 

PI_I  —  -  —  *  —  $ 

-*  — 

r-f- 

&—     —  ^  «  — 

—  «=  ~m 

While  France  her  huge  limbs  bathes  recumbent  in  blood, 

And  society's  base  threats  with  wide  dissolution, 
May  peace,  like  the  dove  who  returned  from  the  flood, 
Find  an  ark  of  abode  in  our  mild  constitution. 
But  though  peace  is  our  aim, 
Yet  the  boon  we  disclaim, 
If  bought  by  our  sovereignty,  justice,  or  fame; 
For  ne'er  shall  the  sons,  etc. 

'Tis  the  fire  of  the  flint  each  American  warms ; 

Let  Rome's  haughty  victors  beware  of  collision ; 
Let  them  bring  all  the  vassals  of  Europe  in  arms, 
We're  a  world  by  ourselves,  and  disdain  a  provision. 
While  with  patriot  pride 
To  our  laws  we're  allied, 
No  foe  can  subdue  us,  no  faction  divide  ; 
For  ne'er  shall  the  sons,  etc. 

Our  mountains  are  crowned  with  imperial  oak, 

Whose  roots,  like  our  liberties,  ages  have  nourished ; 
But  long  ere  our  nation  submits  to  the  yoke, 

Not  a  tree  shall  be  left  on  the  field  where  it  flourished. 
Should  invasion  impend, 
Every  grove  would  descend 

From  the  hill-tops  they  shaded,  our  shores  to  defend; 
For  ne'er  shall  the  sons.  etc. 

Let  our  Patriots  destroy  Anarch's  pestilent  worm, 

Les't  our  liberty's  growth  should  be  checked  by  corrosion ; 
Then  let  clouds  thicken  round  us  —  we  heed  not  the  storm; 
Our  realm  fears  no  shock  but  the  earth's  own  explosion ; 
Foes  assail  us  in  vain 
Though  their  fleets  bridge  the  main, 
For  our  altars  and  laws,  with  our  lives  we'll  maintain ; 
For  ne'er  shall  the  sons,  etc. 

Let  fame  to  the  world  sound  America's  voice : 

No  intrigue  can  her  sons  from  the  government  sever ; 
Her  pride  are  her  statesmen  —  their  laws  are  her  choice, 
And  shall  flourish  till  Liberty  slumbers  forever. 
Then  unite  heart  and  hand, 
Like  Leonidas'  band, 

And  swear  to  the  God  of  the  ocean  and  land 
That  ne'er  shall  the  sons,  etc. 


OUB   FAMILIAB 

Should  the  tempest  of  war  overshadow  our  land, 

Its  bolts  could  ne'er  rend  Freedom's  temple  asunder; 
For  unmoved  at  its  portals  would  Washington  stand, 
And  repulse  with  his  breast  the  assaults  of  the  thunder: 
Of  its  scabbard  would  leap, 
His  sword  from  the  sleep 

And  conduct,  with  its  point,  every  flash  to  the  deep! 
For  ne'er  shall  the  sons,  etc. 


THE  STAR-SPANGLED  BANNER. 

FRANCIS  SCOTT  KEY,  author  of  the  words  of  "  The  Star-Spangled  Banner,"  was  born  in 
Frederick  County,  Maryland,  August  1,  1779.  His  family  were  among  the  earliest  settlers, 
and  his  father  was  an  officer  in  the  Eevolutionary  army.  Francis  was  educated  at  St. 
John's  College,  Annapolis,  and  became  a  lawyer  in  his  native  town.  He  wrote  several 
lyrics,  with  no  thought  of  publication.  They  were  scrawled  upon  the  backs  of  letters  and 
so  many  odd  scraps  of  paper  that  the  sequence  of  the  verses  was  a  puzzle  to  the  friends 
who,  after  his  death,  attempted  to  gather  all  that  had  been  written  by  the  author  of  our 
national  song.  Mr.  Key  was  District  Attorney  of  Washington,  D.  C.,  and  died  in  that  city, 
January  11,  1843. 

During  the  war  of  1812-15,  when  the  British  fleet  lay  in  Chesapeake  Bay,  Mr.  Key 
went  out  from  Baltimore  in  a  small  boat,  under  a  flag  of  truce,  to  ask  the  release  of  a 
friend,  a  civilian,  who  had  been  captured.  Lord  Cockburn  had  just  completed  his  plans 
for  an  attack  upon  Fort  McHenry,  and  instead  of  releasing  one,  he  retained  both.  The 
bombardment  of  the  fort  was  begun  on  the  morning  of  the  13th  of  September,  1814,  and 
continued  for  twenty-four  hours.  Key's  little  boat  lay  moored  to  the  commander's  vessel, 
and  through  a  day  and  a  night,  exposed  to  fire  from  his  friends,  he  watched  the  flag  which 
Lord  Cockburn  had  boasted  would  "  yield  in  a  few  hours."  As  the  morning  of  the  14th 
broke,  he  saw  it  still  waving  in  its  familiar  place.  Then,  as  his  fashion  was,  he  snatched  an 
old  letter  from  his  pocket,  and  laying  it  on  a  barrel-head,  gave  vent  to  his  delight  in  the 
spirited  song  which  he  entitled  "  The  defence  of  Fort  McHenry."  "  The  Star-Spangled 
Banner n  was  printed  within  a  week  in  the  Baltimore  Patriot,  under  the  title  of  "  The 
Defence  of  Fort  McHenry,"  and  found  its  way  immediately  into  the  camps  of  our  army. 
Ferdinand  Durany,  who  belonged  to  a  dramatic  company,  and  had  played  in  a  Baltimore 
theatre  with  John  Howard  Payne,  read  the  poem  effectively  to  the  soldiers  encamped  in 
that  city,  who  were  expecting  another  attack.  They  begged  him  to  set  the  words  to  music, 
and  he  hunted  up  the  old  air  of  "  Adams  and  Liberty,"  sei>  the  words  to  it,  and  sang  it  to 
the  soldiers,  who  caught  it  up  amid  tremendous  applause.  Durany  died  in  Baltimore  in 
1815. 

The  Washington  National  Intelligencer  of  January  6,  1815,  has  this  advertisement 
conspicuously  displayed  on  the  editorial  page  : 

STAR  SPANGLED  BANNER  and  YE  SEAMEN  OF  COLUMBIA— 
TV  o  favorite  patriotic  songs,  this  day  received  and  for  sale  by 
RICHARDS  &  MALLORY,  BRIDGE  STREET,  Georgetown. 

It  is  said  that  the  particular  flag  which  inspired  the  song  was  a  new  one  that  Gen. 
George  Armistead,  the  defender  of  Fort  McHenry,  had  had  made  to  replace  the  old  one, 
which  was  badly  tattered.  The  new  oanner  was  flung  to  the  breeze  for  the  first  time  on 
the  morning  that  his  daughter  Georgeanna  was  born,  which  event  took  place  within  the 


THE  STAR-SPANGLED  BANNER. 


593 


fort,  during  the  bombardment.  By  permission  of  the  general  government  the  hero  of  Fort 
McHenry  was  allowed  to  retain  the  flag,  and  he  provided  in  his  will  that  the  "  Star-Spangled 
Banner"  should  be  the  property  of  his  daughter.  This  lady  became  the  wife  of  W.  Stuart 
Appletou,  Esq.,  of  New  York,  and  died  in  1878.  The  flag  is  now  in  the  possession  of  the 
Massachusetts  Historical  Society. 

In  1861  Dr.  Oliver  Wendell  Holmes  wrote  the  additional  stanza  which  follows: 

When  our  land  is  illumined  with  Liberty's  smile, 

If  a  foe  from  within  strike  a  blow  at  her  glory, 
Down,  down  with  the  traitor  that  dares  to  defile 

The  flag  of  her  stars  and  the  page  of  her  story! 
By  the  millions  unchained  when  our  birthright  was  gained, 

We  will  keep  her  bright  blazon  forever  unstained  I 
And  the  Star-Spangled  Banner  in  triumph  shall  wave 

While  the  land  of  the  free  is  the  home  of  the  brave. 


-U-Jlg  1  

»—"«—] 

:  "i 

—  ^                    ^     •  N^^ 

EBbEEj*  —  JEEP        —  s 

"      •*•_•*•    •*• 

n 
r 

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see               by    the  dawn's    ear   -    ly 
seen            thro'  the    mist       of        the 

^•^ 

light,          What  so 
deep         Where  the 

2.  On    the    shore,    dim   -   I] 
U  |  ?•> 

imP    4 

i  

-fi-  p  ^  — 

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__)  ^  

EF3                                    *—          --3£         j» 

H*  jt  —  fr«     --a.  "  ' 

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proud    -      ly      we 
foe's           haugh-  ty 

fefc-^  —  ^n 

*  •         •      * 

hail'd           at       the 
host            in    dread 

i  —  i  h  —  i  —  i 

t\vi   -  light's    last 
si    -  lence       re    - 

w     •*••        -J  y 

gleam-ing,             Whos* 
pos  -  es,           What    Is 

*  —  -) 

•*•  .         •• 

-  .  0  '  —  —  » 

•       •*• 

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•*• 

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—  JT  -I   -.-          1        -— 

2_^  —  ji±  ^  —  *  — 

^    - 

1  r    r    j  * 

-A    a*  

stripes   and      bright   stars, 
that    which      the       breeze, 


thro'     the      per   -    il    -    ous       fight, 
o'er       the      tow   •    er  -    ing       steep, 


O'er    the 
As       it 


o94 


OUK  FAMILIAR   SONGS. 


%&—•-•  f  —  r— 

i  —  i       p 

L  

r                        .  .0       ,__q 

feL^_  .__^Zg- 

ram       •    parts  we 
fit       -     ful  -  ly 

m 

watch  'd,    were     so          gal-    lant    -    ly 
blows,        half    con    -   ceals,  half        dis   - 

_i                 1        _/            -~        — 

•*• 
stream  -  ing  ;     And     the 
clo      -   ses?       Now     it 

:  J  —  __ 

_-_f  ^__  W_ 

-*"  •             -»--*• 

1*                 *         ^ 

—  1  

r  S  

»    : 

=}  1- 

^-$  —  «-^  —  —  *  — 

_-5  j  

jftat 

_  —  0  — 

r   *  •          r  0"-" 

n*  —  *  —  w  — 

( 

n    -. 

i__  —  _  —  .  — 

rock   -    et's       red 
;atch  -    es          the 

J            J            J 

glare,           the    bombs 
gleam.           of      the 

•'                ^        J 

burst    -  ing          in 
morn    -  ing's       first 

1             J            J 

.  ]^  ^_  —  _ 

air,                   Gave 
beam,                 In    full 

1                      1 

abt 

J  ^  1— 

-t~  —  i  —  f- 

'  J  W__ 

_g_            __^_ 

m^ 

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p  

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^f,  t? 

1  ^  

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...  $ 

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—  &  —       —  *  — 

* 

jfctf-  *-;  £  1 

a        i 

9  1  

1  

^nj~  i-j  •  — 

0  

—  hi~ 

—  ^  

proof              thro'     the 
glo        -        ry         re    - 

n      ,,        J        ,                   ^  ^ 

night             that       our 
fleet       -         ed,     now 

1  N  1  1 

f          y0 
flag       was         still 
shines         in          the 

there! 
stream  ; 

1  p  -1  

'     •              i              ) 

f-  

u^^r                               _E____________! 

w     •                              •)                  ^ 

5                        i 

v  \J           *  *                  __!           c 

W     •                              M             9, 

4            J          \>-0     -- 

_i* 

•w         A       H  j» 

-4 

vV  J  •     ~~*     = 

_,  ,  • 

=4  

/  CHORUS. 


say,  does  that 

2.  'Tis      tne        star  span  -  gled 

3,  4.  And     the        star  span  -  gled 

5.  And     the        star  span  -  gled 


star  span  -    gled  ban    -  ner  yet 

ban  -  ner,  Oh!  long  may           it 

ban  -  ner  in  tri    -  umph  doth 

ban  -  ner  in  tri    -  umph  shall 


' 


— S— b« — i 


5EET=E-I£E^E5FiE  E* 

~^7^I  ^.9  J^  — 


STAB-SPANGLED   BANNER. 


595 


1,2,3,4.  wave,         O'er   the    land 
5.  wave,        While  the   land 


of     the 
of     the 


free 
free 


and      the       home       of 
is        the       home       of 


the 
the 


brave! 
brave  ! 


ig^E 


i 


And  where  is  that  band  who  so  vauntingly  swore, 

'Mid  the  havoc  of  war  and  the  battle's  confusion, 
A  home  and  a  country  they'd  leave  us  no  more? 

Their  blood  has  wash'd  out  their  foul  footsteps'  pollution  •, 
No  refuge  could  save  the  hireling  and  slave 

From  the  terror  of  flight  or  the  gloom  of  the  grave, 
And  the  star-spangled  banner  in  triumph  doth  wave, 

O'er  the  land  of  the  free  and  the  home  of  the  brave. 

Oh  thus  be  it  ever  when  freemen  shall  stand 

Between  their  loved  home  and  the  war's  desolation ; 
Blest  with  vict'ry  and  peace,  may  the  heaven-rescued  land 

Praise  the  Power  that  hath  made  and  preserved  us  a  nation. 
Then  conquer  we  must,  when  our  cause  it  is  just, 

And  this  be  our  motto,  "  In  God  is  our  trust," 
And  the  star-spangled  banner  in  triumph  shall  wave, 

While  the  land  of  the  free  is  the  home  of  the  brave. 


MY  COUNTRY,   'TIS  OF  THEE. 

THE  author  of  the  words  of  "America"  is  SAMUEL  FRANCIS  SMITH,  D.D.,  who  was  born 
in  Boston,  October  21,  1808,  and  was  for  many  years  pastor  of  the  First  Baptist  Church  in 
Newton,  Mass.  Since  his  resignation  he  has  been  devoted  to  literary  and  religious 
pursuits.  It  is  of  him  that  Oliver  Wendell  Holmes  says,  in  his  poem  entitled  "  The  Boys : » 

"And  there's  a  nice  fellow  of  excellent  pith, — 
Fate  tried  to  conceal  him  by  naming  him  Smith, 
But  he  shouted  a  song  for  the  brave  and  the  free,— 
Just  read  on  his  medal, '  My  Country,  of  thee ! ' " 

In  a  letter  dated  Newton  Centre,  Mass.,  June  11,  1861,  Dr.  Smith  says:  "The  song  was 
written  at  Andover  during  my  student  life  there,  I  think  in  the  winter  of  1831-2. 
first  used  publicly  at  a  Sunday-school  celebration  of  July  4th,  in  the  Park  Street 
Boston     I  had  in  my  possession  a  quantity  of  German  song-books,  from  which  I 
selecting  such  music  as  pleased  me,  and  finding  '  God  save  the  King/  I  proceed* 
it  the  ring  of  American  republican  patriotism." 


596 


OUE    FAMILIAR    SONGS, 


ic^r- 

j  -j          —1      —  i 

N  __i  —  _ 

-4—    —4—  —w  4 

'^  '  •••[•     ••••] 

p  ^ 

1.  M 
2.  M 

•  -m  ^  —  •  —  j~ 
j  w  0    .1.    g- 

y         coun  -    try  I      'tis 
y          na    -     tive     coun 

'        _3         T~       *  ' 

:  :-^=- 

of       thee,    g 
try!     thee,     1 

-0  -0  €  _}. 

weet      land         of         Li 
..iii'l         of         the         no 

=*—  ^—  ^-fc-E 

3  

b    -        er    •     ty, 
ble       free, 

1  J  H 

:       ..  -  t    -  -f. 
\     '    ' 

1      '     | 

Hh  —  |  ^  —  i  —  p. 

^  1  } 

w  if      i 

i    r  j         i 

10                   0 

*    f-      -  j    -i 

*          i_l 

H             -    -                f 

5  •           «     _  J 

0           m        '  '0, 

f/_f5       M 

0              J            ,-0                * 

f          f 

•      *    s 

0     '        *             9 

V"  12       ^ 

j            5      '    ""4- 

\           \ 

Of 
Thy    i 

•>                0            CS 

thee        I       sing  ; 
lame       I       love  ; 

Land  where 
I        love 

1—  *— 

my       fa       -     there  diec 
thy    rocks          and     rills 

;  Land      of        the 
,  Thy    woods   and 

1  __j  

1  ^  L_ 

__p  1  -] 

^L#_^  £        I 

i            •      i      i 

-j-f  —  4-^  —    —  9  0  — 

1  —  *-^  —  i- 

=qa 

$&       *  '            *        1- 

—  *          0    *    •*  0  \     0-.            J        0 

\  0    P      t         2 

—<s^—4\ 

tr-                                 -I  !  —  fc 

pil       -    grim's  pride;  From     ev    -    'ry         moun     -    tain    side, 
tern     -     pled    hills,     My       heart     with        rap    -       tare  thrills 

CSSr 
Let       free  -  dom        ring. 
Like     that         a    -     bove. 

•*•  —     •*•         •*•         o  • 

if\*ii  I                   ' 

—  f-  *  »- 

»  •           r 

i           1 

P  *      II 

&/*-*—•-*  —  —  f  —  »— 

1        —  u      ..     —  y     .  .[_  — 

-|  -tj     ^~ 

—  r  — 

1          11 

Let  music  swell  the  breeze, 
And  ring  among  the  trees 

Sweet  freedom's  song : 
Let  mortal  tongues  awake, 
Let  all  that  breathe  partake, 
Let  rocks  their  silence  break, 

The  sound 


Our  fathers'  God  !  to  thee, 
Author  of  liberty ! 

To  thee  we  sing ; 
Long  may  our  land  be  bright 
With  freedom's  holy  light, 
Protect  us  by  thy  might, 

Great  God,  our  King ! 


MORAL  AND  RELIGIOUS  SONGS. 


Such  songs  have  power  to  quiet 

The  restless  pulse  of  care, 
And  come  like  the  benediction 

That  follows  after  prayer. 

—  Henry  Wadsworth  Longfellow. 


Then  all  the  jarring  notes  of  life 
Seem  blending  in  a  psalm, 

And  all  the  angles  of  its  strife 
Slow  rounding  into  calm. 

-John  Greenleaf 


Peace !  and  no  longer  from  its  brazen  portals 
The  blast  of  war's  great  organ  shakes  the  skies, 

But  beautiful  as  songs  of  the  immortals 
The  holy  melodies  of  love  arise. 

—Henry  Wadsworth  Longfellow. 


MORAL  AND  RELIGIOUS  SONGS, 


THE  SPIDER   AND  THE   FLY. 

IT  is  a  singular  coincidence  that  the  two  most  intimately  associated  married  names  in 
political  and  literary  life  in  England,  should  be  identical— the  William  and  Mary  who 
wielded  the  sceptre,  and  the  William  and  Mary  who  wielded  the  pen.  MARY  HOWITT  was 
born  at  TJttoxeter,  Staffordshire,  England,  about  3804.  Her  young  days  were  passed 
there,  until  she  married.  With  her  husband  she  studied,  travelled,  wrote  and  published 
in  prose  and  poetry.  She  had  children  of  unusual  brightness,  and  we  may  fancy  that  it 
was  for  their  delight  and  instruction  she  wrote  "  The  Spider  and  the  Fly."  The  music  for 
it  has  been  attributed  to  Henry  Russell,  who  used  to  sing  it  in  his  concerts ;  but  it  is  an 
old  English  air,  "  Will  you  come  to  the  bower." 


0  b        >     N 

^      N      h      ^      h    ^ 

-f*- 

| 

js        S 

M  —  f- 

-f-1 

fny^A*  —  H  —  • 

—  i  — 

<  — 

^     ^    «M 

* 

—  —  i  — 

-^  — 

4    d- 

*-*  —  •  —  '  •  •  —  *  —  •  —  0  —  0^  0  —  0  —  *  —  ' 

j    ("Will  you      walk     in    -   to       my     par-  lor?"  said      a 
on  -   ly      got       to     pass  your  head  with  - 
2    f  "Will  you     grant    me     one    sweet       kiss?"  said  the 
"  (                          if,     per-chance    our    lips  should  meet,  a 

L_y_  —  ^_ 

spi  -  der 
in  side 
spi  -  der 
wa  -  ger 

.       f- 

0  N=^  • 

to       a       fly,  "  Tis  the 
of     the    doo'r,      You'll 
to     the      fly  ;        "  To 
I   would    lay,        Of 

•         - 

feX  b  4  i  —  p  —  : 

?      S      f      $      $    S    ? 

: 

~^T 

f   t   y  V  V 

_^  

(^  

—  ^          X  S  N  V-  

\  I  I 

\f   i 

—  K  

—  t  —  tc= 

H  IS  , 

pret  -  tiest      lit  •  tie          par     -      lor     that 
see      so      ma  -   ny       cu  -  rious  things  you 
taste  your  charm-  ing          lips           I've      a 
ten      to      one     you  woula  not     oft  -    en 

I*         1*         (•         1*'      "l*         r*         1* 

g-b—  f-  f-  "  — 

ev  -     er       you 
nev    •   er        saw 
cu    -    ri    -     os     • 
let     them     come 

*  0.  0.  

did       spy;       You  have 
be  •   fore;—  Omit  Id  time. 
i    -      ty;            But. 
a  -    way,—  Omit  2d  time. 

—  dH?  5— 

X 

5 

—  5  —  5  —  6  —  i 

p  U  —  'V—  J 

Will 


— 0 0 = 0 0 0 —  9 Jf.  -J. 

you,     will        you,     will       you,     will      you      walk       in,       Mis  -    ter       Flyf 

•         »  ?" t 0 0 . 0 0- r* 0 -m 


600 


OUR  FAMILIAR   SONGS. 


f\  "  h  K 

i 

is               -3 

f                  J                                           P                  1                II 

j  —  < 

i  ^ 

J  

-T-  —  J  9  »  — 

—  *  1  •  J  J  H 

J   j 

ill       y 

» 

P  1 

ou,  wi 

J=f 

11      you,      w 
• 

ill       you,     will     you 

-0-        /~* 

i==g=  V     g 

•    t 

walk       in,       Mis  -  ter       Flyf' 

j  r  j  f  ^  u 

p  i?  — 

7  1  ^—  -&  

-^  —  ?  —  t:  —  J  —  F  —  1- 

"For  the  last  time,  now,  I  ask  you,  will  you  walk  in,  Mister  Fly?" 
"  No  ;  if  I  do,  I  may  be  shot,  I'm  off  —  so  now,  good  bye  !  " 
Then  up  he  springs, but  both  his  wings  were  in  the  web  caught  fast. 
The  spider  laughed,  "  Ha,  ha,  my  boy,  I've  caught  you  safe  at  last." 
"  Will  you,  will  you,"  etc. 

Now  all  young  men,  take  warning  by  this  foolish  little  fly,— 
For  pleasure  is  the  spider's  web,  to  catch  you  it  will  try; 
And  although  you  may  think  that  my  advice  is  quite  a  bore, 
You're  lost  if  you  stand  parleying  outside  of  pleasure's  door. 
"  Will  you,  will  you,"  etc. 


"  Will  you  walk  into  my  parlor?"  said  a  spider  to  a  fly ; 

'Tis  the  prettiest  little  parlor  that  ever  you  did  spy. 

The  way  into  my  parlor  is  up  a  winding  stair, 

And  I  have  many  curious  things  to  show  when  you  are  there." 

"  Oh  no,  no !  "  said  the  little  fly,  "  to  ask  me  is  in  vain ; 

For  who  goes  up  your  winding  stair,  can  ne'er  come  down  again." 

"  I'm  sure  you  must  be  weary  with  soaring  up  so  high ; 

Will  you  rest  upon  my  little  bed?"  said  the  spider  to  the  fly. 

"There  are  pretty  curtains  drawn  around,  the  sheets  are  fine  and  thin; 

And  if  you  like  to  rest  awhile,  I'll  snugly  tuck  you  in." 

"  Oh  no,  no  !  "  said  the  little  fly,  "for  I've  often  heard  it  said, 

They  never,  never  wake  again,  who  sleep  upon  your  bed." 

Said  the  cunning  spider  to  the  fly,  "  Dear  friend,  what  shall  I  do, 

To  prove  the  warm  affection,  I've  always  felt  for  you? 

I  have,  within  my  pantry,  good  store  of  all  that's  nice ; 

I'm  sure  you're  very  welcome  —  will  you  please  to  take  a  slice?" 

"Oh  no,  no  ! "  said  the  little  fly,  "kind  sir,  that  cannot  be  ; 

I've  heard  what's  in  your  pantry,  and  I  do  not  wish  to  see." 

"Sweet  creature,"  said  the  spider,  "you're  witty  and  you're  wise; 

How  handsome  are  your  gauzy  wings  !  how  brilliant  are  your  eyes  \ 

I  have  a  little  looking-glass  upon  my  parlor  shelf; 

If  you'll  step  in  one  moment,  dear,  you  shall  behold  yourself." 

"  I  thank  you,  gentle  sir,"  she  said,  "for  what  you're  pleased  to  say, 

And  bidding  you  good  morning,  now,  I'll  call  another  day." 

The  spider  turned  him  round  about,  and  went  into  his  den, 

For  well  he  knew  the  silly  fly  would  soon  be  back  again ; 

So  he  wove  a  subtle  thread  in  a  little  corner  sly, 

And  set  his  table  ready  to  dine  upon  the  fly. 

He  went  out  to  his  door  again,  and  merrily  did  sing, 

"  Come  hither,  hither,  pretty  fly,  with  the  pearl  and  silver  wing ; 

Your  robes  are  green  and  purple,  there's  a  crest  upon  your  head; 

Your  eyes  are  like  the  diamond  bright,  hut  mine  are  dull  as  lead." 


THE  SPIDER   AND    THE  FLY. 

Alas,  alas  !  how  very  soon  this  silly  little  fly, 
Hearing  his  wily,  flattering  words,  came  slowly  flitting  by: 
With  buzzing  wings  she  hung  aloft,  then  nearer,  nearer  drew  — 
Thought  only  of  her  brilliant  eyes,  and  green  and  purple  hue ; 
Thought  only  of  her  crested  head,—  poor  foolish  thing  !     At  last 
Up  jumped  the  cunning  spider,  and  fiercely  held  her  fast. 

He  dragged  her  up  his  winding  stair,  into  his  dismal  den 
Within  his  little  parlor  —  but  she  ne'er  came  out  again  ! 
And  now,  dear  little  children,  who  may  this  story  read, 
To  idle,  silly,  flattering  words,  I  pray  you,  ne'er  give  heed: 
Unto  an  evil  counsellor  close  heart  and  ear  and  eye, 
And  learn  a  lesson  from  this  tale  of  the  spider  and  the  fly. 


THE   FLOWERS  OF  THE  FOREST. 

THE  author  of  the  words  of  the  following  song,  ALISON  KUTHERFURD,  was  born  at 
Fairnalee,  Selkirkshire,  Scotland,  1712.  In  writing  to  the  Kev.  Dr.  Douglas,  she  says:  "I 
can  this  minute  figure  myself  running  as  fast  as  a  greyhound,  in  a  hot  summer  day,  to 
have  the  pleasure  of  plunging  into  the  Tweed  to  cool  me.  I  see  myself  wrapt  in  my 
petticoat,  on  the  declivity  of  the  hill  at  Fairnalee,  letting  myself  roll  down  to  the  bottom, 
with  infinite  delight.  As  for  the  chase  of  the  silver  spoon  at  the  end  of  the  rainbow, 
nothing  could  exceed  my  ardor,  except  my  faith  which  created  it.  I  can  see  myself  the 
first  favorite  at  Lamothe's  dancing,  and  remember  turning  pale  and  red  with  the  ambition 
of  applause.  I  am  not  sure  if  ever  I  was  so  vain  of  any  lover  or  admirer  as  I  was  of  the 
heavenly  affection  of  your  predecessor,  whom,  by  his  own  assignation,  I  rode  over  from 
Fairnalee  at  six  in  the  morning  to  meet.  *  *  *  He  embraced  me  with  fervor, 
and  said  I  would  not  repent  losing  some  hours  sleep  to  see  for  the  last  time  an  old  man, 
who  was  going  home.  He  naturally  fell  into  a  description  of  his  malady,  checked  himself, 
and  said  it  was  a  shame  to  complain  of  a  bad  road  to  a  happy  home ;  '  and  there '  said  he, 
< is  my  passport/  pointing  to  the  Bible;  Met  me  beg,  my  young  friend,  you  will  study 
it:  you  are  not  yet  a  Christian,  but  you  have  an  inquiring  mind,  and  cannot  fail  to 
become  one.'" 

Miss  Eutherfurd  was  one  of  the  beauties  of  the  circle  that  counted  among  its  members 
Lady  Anne  Lindsay  and  Jane  Elliot,  of  Minto.  Her  correspondence  shows  her  to  have  been 
a  brilliant  and  noblewoman.  In  1731  she  married  Patrick  Cockburn,  of  Ormiston.  Of 
this  event  she  afterward  wrote:  "I  was  married,  properly  speaking,  to  a  man  of  seventy, 
five— my  father-in-law"  [step-father J ;  and  at  another  time  she  says:  " I  was  twenty  years 
united  to  a  lover  and  a  friend."  Mrs.  Cockburn  was  forty-one  years  old  when  her  husband 
died,  and  her  house  in  Edinburgh  was  the  gathering-place  for  some  of  the  finest  literary 
minds  of  the  day.  She  died  in  that  house,  November  22,  1794. 

There  was  a  tradition  in  the  family  that  Mrs.  Cockburn's  song,  "The  Flowers  of  the 
Forest,"  was  in  some  way  connected  with  the  name  or  fate  of  a  young  lover  who  died 
about  the  time  she  was  married.  The  song  was  supposed  to  refer  to  the  noblemen  who 
fell  at  Flodden,  and  with  them  many  of  the  most  gallant  archers  of  «  The  Forest,"  the  home 
of  Mrs.  Cockburu,  in  Selkirkshire.  Mr.  Chambers,  an  intimate  friend  of  Mrs.  Cockburn,  it 
an  account  of  her  says  the  song  was  occasioned  -by  a  commercial  disaster,  by  which  seveu 
noblemen  of  the  Forest  were  rendered  insolvent  in  one  year;  but  Mrs.  Cockburn s  corres* 


602 


OUR   FAMILIAR    SONGS. 


pondence  seems  to  indicate  that  the  verses  she  wrote  for  the  occasion  were  different,  and 
that  this  song  was  written  long  before  the  financial  calamity,  and  did  refer  to  the  eventful 
battle  of  Flodden.  Mrs.  Cockburn's  song  has  been  spoken  of  in  some  collections,  as  an 
imitation  of  Jane  Elliot's  "  Flowers  of  the  Forest."  The  fact  is,  Mrs.  Cockburn's  song  was 
written  many  years  earlier  than  that  of  Miss  Elliot,  who  was  fifteen  years  her  junior. 

The  air  to  which  the  words  were  first  set  was  three  centuries  old.  but  it  has  been 
superseded  by  a  more  modern  one. 


.*     Larghetto 


1.  I've         seen      the         smil    -     ing 

2.  I've        seen      the        morn   -     ing 


of 
with 


for    -    tune    be   -     guil    -     ing,    I've 
gold  the  hills    a    -     dorn    -    ing,    And 


m 


-- 

i      — 


3=* 


IP 


-e- 


f=T 


r 


felt      all    its        fa-vors,  and        found     its     de-cay; 
loud  tempests  storm-ing    be    -     fore       the  mid-day; 


Sweet        was     her     bless-ing  and 
I've  seen  Tweed's  silver  streams,glit- 


£—  — t 

w  I      Z=|g- 


_J u *a- 

T^—=^ 


T 


r-* 


kind  her  ca  -  ress-  ing,  But    now     they     are      fled,  they  are 
t'ring  in  the  sunny  beams,Grow  drum  -  lie     and     dark     as   they 


fled 
roll'd 


far       a-way. 
on     their  way. 


^ 


P 


^^ 


I've  seen  the    for  -  est    a   -     dorn  -  ed  the    fore-most,  Wi'     flow'rs   o'    the     fair  -  est    baith 
O      fick  -  le     for  -  tune  I     why  this  cru-el    sport  -ing?  Oh!      why  thus  per-plex    us     poor 


THE  FLOWERS   OF    THE   FOREST. 

5=1 


603 


now       they        are         with     -       er'd 
flow'rs       o>  the  for      -       est 


and 
are 


wede 
wede 


a  -  way. 
a  -  way. 


A   MAN'S  A   MAN   FOR  A'  THAT. 

IN  the  letter  to  Mr.  Thomson,  the  Scottish  song-collector,  which  accompanied  the  first 
copy  of  his  song  "  A  Man's  a  Man  for  a'  That,"  BURNS  wrote :  « A  great  critic,  Aiken,  on 
songs,  says  that  love  and  wine  are  the  exclusive  themes  for  song- writing ;  the  following  is 
one  on  neither  subject,  and  consequently  is  no  song,  but  will  be  allowed,  I  think,  to  be  two 
or  three  pretty  good  prose  thoughts  inverted  into  rhyme." 

The  world  had  decided  against  Mr.  Aiken,  and  Beranger,  —  who  is  called  the  Burns  of 
Prance, — used  to  say  that  this  song  was  not  a  song  for  one  age,  but  for  an  eternity.  It 
seems  to  me  that  Burns  describes  it  correctly. 


jtt.  •>    2    |N    .  .-  •    |*    J  JS- 

-r  J  ^  f 

—f-i  —  •*  —  :     —  N- 

—  h  N  ^~.    m    T  K- 

1.     Is     there  for  lion-  est 
2.  What  though  on  hamely 
3.    Ye      see  yon  birk  -  ie, 

-0-b-n  r—  ^  '  1 

i-J      -^  —  UH-U   %  '  —  JH-^  —  ^  —  J-I-T           jj 

pov  -  er  -  ty  That  hangs  his  head,  an'       a'     that?  The    cow-ard  slave  we 
fare  we  dine,Wear  hod-den-gray,  and      a'     that,  Gie  fools  their  silks,  and 
ca'ed    a  lord,  Wha  struts  and  stares,  and   a'     that,  Tho'  hundreds  worship 

p-T—                                                       .            1                     —  ]—                                                                       -^—  1  (— 

F?=  =4= 

F3==  =^q 

J              J  ' 

^^=4_   ._^  j  

-t\  ^»  

-a  s  

-*-:  

—  •!  3  

J                                0                                                                                         9                                                                                9 

•              •                  m                                   *             *                  m   •                         *             » 



-4  

i 

H  b  



—  ^  —  —  •  — 

-  F                  1 

=t==f= 

\                                                         -L»—                       —^  ,  ^  —  ^  1  . 

604 


OUR   FAMILIAR   SONGS. 


iy  i  "  —  Ps  —   —  2  ff   1  « 

9—.  y  N-|- 

--*—*- 

m'    f    -i         •     I    EC 

•  «    f  i 

pass  him   by,     We     daur     be  puir  for       a'          that.  For 
knaves  their  wine  ;  A     man's     a  man  for       a'          that.  For 
at    his  word,  He's    but       a  coof  for       a*          that.  For 

a'        that,  and        a' 
a'        that,  and        a' 
a'       that,  and       a' 

^      ix    j 

that,  Our 
that.Their 
that,  His 

(pil 

Wnr-S 

-   =jt=  -q 
J 

d 

-     -i  IH 

9     ^^ 

J    r      *; 

J  , 

9  F  j 

frrr  — 

~J  b  ^  —  9  —  1 

*—fr    \<      f 

f-  g   r-  *  J 

^[-/                           W 

I'             yf            if 

V 

L       "       I/       i             • 

toils  obscure,  and     a' 
tin  -  sel  show  and     a' 
rib-bon,  star,  and    a' 

Q    h     J  »  ,-—  1— 

that;  The  rank  is  but   the  guinea's  stamp,The  man's  the  gowd  for  a'     that, 
that,  The  hon-est  man,  tho'  e'er   sae  puir,  Is    king    o'  men  for      a'     that, 
that,  The  man  of  in  -  de-pend-ent  mind  Can  look  and  laugh  at      a'     that. 

^  —  r~ 

—  M  —  2  — 

"l~=i  «  

SF  —  S  5  *-=- 

5 

9    f 

-i               i  

ty 

,    v.   .         f  .  .  ,-*  

^  —     r^—-   —  9  — 

>•>            «           « 

fe£fi—\ 

•                f   • 

M  

.              t 

•f~~=i  —  r     ~~r 

t  —  H 

*-*b-  —  * 

,-: 

~9 

E  — 

V-    -V- 

-f-^- 

A  king  can  mak'  a  belted  knight, 

A  marquis,  duke,  and  a'  that; 
But  an  honest  man's  aboon  his  might, 

Gude  faith,  he  maunna  fa'  that! 
For  a'  that,  and  a'  that, 

Their  dignities  and  a'  that, 
The  pith  o'  sense,  the  pride  o'  worth, 

Are  higher  ranks  than  a'  that. 


Then  let  us  pray  that  come  it  may, 

As  come  it  will  for  a'  that, 
That  sense  and  worth,  o'er  a'  the  earth, 

May  bear  the  gree  and  a'  that. 
For  a'  that,  and  a'  that, 

It's  comin'  yet  for  a'  that, 
When  man  to  man,  the  warld  o'er, 

Shall  brothers  be  for  a'  that. 


THERE'S  A  GOOD  TIME  COMING. 

JOHN  BLACK,  long  and  widely  known  as  editor  of  the  London  Morning  Chronicle, 
writing  to  CHARLES  MACZAY,  says :  "  I  think  I  have  heard  during  the  last  half-dozen  years 
your  song  of  '  There's  a  good  time  coming/  oftener  sung  by  the  people,  than  I  have  ever 
heard  any  one  song  sung  during  the  course  of  my  life."  At  the  close  of  Mackay's  first  visit  to 
America,  Oliver  Wendell  Holmes  addressed  to  him  the  exquisite  poem  beginning: 

"  Brave  singer  of  the  coming  time, 

Sweet  minstrel  of  the  joyous  present, 
Crowned  with  the  noblest  wreath  of  rhyme, 

The  holly-leaf  of  Ayrshire's  peasant, 
Good  bye !  Good  bye !  —  Our  hearts  and  hands, 

Our  lips  in  honest  Saxon  phrases, 
Cry,  God  be  with  him,  till  he  stands 

His  feet  among  the  English  daisies  I " 


/L  E=a  j>  a: 

• 

N          K        J             J1 

{•               • 

k.  J       J      J 

*          J         1 

fm   *     4   9    ( 

p         • 

m.  '    * 

!f  •   •     m      * 

• 

fin      "* 

J     J 

5 

1,  2.  There's  a  good    time 

cora-ing,  boys,     A 

good     time 

—  !  —  '  —  i  —  h 

coming,  There's  a    good     time 

-     ~  i      ~T  '  !   J     ""]  1 

L__L 

f  

p=r   r  —  i 

!    ^    J    * 
—  j  -f  1 

Ti 

1      '      J      •- 

h 

• 

i  —  t—^ 

^  *•  4— 

i          j..    ,. 

—  *  — 

-^— 

—  \ 

—  r  — 

-j  —  '  —  i 

THERE'S  A   GOOD    TIME    COMING. 


605 


corn-ing,  boys,         Wait   a      lit-  tie     long  -    er.fWe    may  not  live    to       see  the   dav,  But 

{  The   pen  shall  su  -  per  -  sede  the  sword.And 


ad  lib. 


^=qg=HE^^-^-^—  J—J—  -«ELjl 

._ 

—  a  a 

1  ~*  M 

*  —  -v  —  ^  *L4-H  —  -  —  —  5  —  J__ 

earth  shall  glis-  ten        in   the   ray      Of    the 
right,  not  might,  shall    be   the  lord      In    the 

—                             i    -                                        i 

—  ft  0  l_|t  "  "g  p  =j  

J      J  .^J-  *  J   C  C  C  C 

good       time    coming,                  Can-non  balls  may 
good       time    coining.              Worth,  not  birth,  shall 

^  1     g-      .  =    -V-,    =S= 

£&«  t   f  *  f\T  ,1    H    =] 

:3F=^ 

f           iry- 
P'l                 1- 

w5 

f     m  •     si 

-^ 

"     N 

FSp 

C=l  —  •'       '       !       '     '   j       i      J                    H 

-J  J- 

•~l<  —      —  jt  1  — 

^=grrt^-^ 


aid  the  truth,  But  thought's  a  wea-pon   strong  -er;  We'll  win  our  bat  -  tie      by    its     aid, 
rule  man-kind,  And      be    acknowledged  strong  -   er;The   prop-er    im  -  pulse   has  been  giv-en, 


pm 


W 


M 


^  ad  lib.    tempo. 


S 


Wait      a    lit  -  tie     long-  er.  Ohl        There's  a  good      time       coming,  boys,     A     good    tini. 


.   . 


^3 


606 


OUR    FAMILIAR   SONGS. 


o   >  r~  ir'? 
i-^    «i        i  "    p 


com-  ing,  There's   a      good     time  com  -  ing,  boys,        Wait       a      lit  -   tie      long    -     or. 


i 


f=f 


^^ 


There's  a  good  time  coming,  boys, 

A  good  time  coming  : 
Hateful  rivalries  of  creed, 
Shall  not  make  their  martyrs  bleed, 

In  the  good  time  coming. 
Religion  shall  be  shorn  of  pride, 

And  flourish  all  the  stronger; 

And  charity  shall  trim  her  lamp  — 

Wait  a  little  longer. 


There's  a  good  time  coming,  boys, 

A  good  time  coming; 
War  in  all  men's  eyes  shall  be 
A  monster  of  iniquity, 

In  the  good  time  coming. 
Nations  shall  not  quarrel,  then, 

To  prove  which  is  the  stronger; 
Nor  slaughter  men  for  glory's  sake  — 
Wait  a  little  longer. 


CALLER   HERRIN'. 

THIS  song  of  LADY  NAIRNE'S  illustrates  the  power  of  imagination  in  an  odd  way. 
Lady  Nairne  kept  her  authorship  scrupulously  concealed,  and  she  sent  this  song  tu  its 
destination  by  the  only  friend  who  was  in  her  secret.  It  was  written  for  the  benefit  of 
Nathaniel  Gow,  a  musical  composer,  son  of  the  celebrated  Neil  Gow.  He  did  not  know  ii> 
source,  and  as  the  song,  set  to  an  air  which  his  father  had  made,  became  a  favorite  where- 
ever  the  musician  played  it,  there  was  much  speculation  as  to  its  origin.  The  whole  pro- 
duction was  attributed  to  Neil  Gow,  and  accounted  for  by  the  story  that  it  was  suggested  t<j 
him  while  listening  to  the  bells  of  St.  Andrew's  Church  in  Edinburgh,  mingled  with  the 
cries  of  the  fish-women  who  vend  their  herrings  in  the  street.  These  women  are  notorious 
for  their  exorbitant  demands,  and  as  the  purchaser  offers  about  one  third  of  the  price 
asked,  there  is  much  higgling  before  the  bargain  is  concluded,  which  generally  ends  with 
the  irresistible  appeal  alluded  to  in  the  song,  "  Lord  bless  ye,  mem  !  it's  no  fish  ye're  buy- 
ing, it's  the  lives  o'  honest  men  !  " 


Moderate. 


Wha'll  buy  cal  -  ler  her  -  rin'?  They're  bonnie  fish  and  halesome  far  -  in' ;  Buy  my  cal  -  ler  her  -  rin% 


CALLER 


607 


F^f^faQ3*^ 

' — ^^ST—*— -0~m-~t^~ , 


22:?  z  a 


-1 0- 


Wha'llbuycal-ler   her  -  rin'?  They're  bonnie  fish  andhalesome  far -in';  Buy  mycal-ler  her  -   rin' 


—s — ^ •- 

•*         •*         * 


^ 


Tft* 


?  * 


ifc  j^=g=z  -?<-y — ^-?: 


•  '  f   f  *  f_*       *     f    u»— ,     "f-  ,s     ^     ,N     ,^-r^fe 

^=fe=b=^=t==^=t?=:       r    ;    * >  -J=3=*= 


New  drawn  frae  the  Forth,  Wha'll  buy  my  cal  -  ler  her-r in'?  They're  no  brought  here  without  brave  darin', 


« ^ !,<-' 

fr^j. 


608 


OtfB  FAMILIAR   SONGS. 


a=f-tf=:     —+-^—r 

*=$=&-+-*==£ 


-_?n5_s 


Buy  my  cal-   ler  her  -    rin',  Ye     lit -tie    ken  their  worth.  Wha'll  buy  my  cal  -   ler  her-  rin'?  O 


dim. 


z 


ye  may   ca'  them  vul  -gar    fa  -  rin'  Wives  and  mith  -ers  maist  despair-in',  Ca'  them  lives  o'  men. 


:=4=: 


=--f — 3_s 


;— *• 


^^ 


b^J-y-J--*^ 


-^-  b: 


This  recalls  the  following  anonymous  Scottish  poem,  which  uses  the  refrain  that  gave 
rise  to  Lady  Nairne's  song : — 

The  farmer's  wife  sat  at  the  door,  a  pleasant  sight  to  see ; 

And  blithesome  were  the  wee,  wee  bairus  that  played  around  her  knee. 

When,  bending  'neath  her  heavy  creel,  a  poor  fish- wife  came  by, 
And,  turning  from  the  toilsome  road,  unto  the  door  drew  nigh. 

She  laid  her  burden  on  the  green,  and  spread  its  scaly  store, 

With  trembling  hands  and  pleading  words  she  told  them  o'er  and  o'er. 

But  lightly  laughed  the  young  guidwife,  "  We're  no  sae  scarce  o'  cheer; 
Tak'  up  your  creel,  and  gang  your  ways, — I'll  buy  nae  fish  sae  dear." 

Bending  beneath  her  load  again,  a  weary  sight  to  see ; 

Right  sorely  sighed  the  poor  fish-wife,  "  They're  dear  fish  to  me ! 

"  Our  boat  was  oot  ae  fearfu'  night,  and  when  the  storm  blew  o'er, 
My  husband,  and  my  three  brave  sons,  lay  corpses  on  the  shore. 

"  I've  been  a  wife  for  thirty  years,  —  a  childless  widow  three; 
I  maun  buy  them  now  to  sell  again,  —  they're  dear  fish  to  me  1 " 

The  farmer's  wife  turned  to  the  door,  —  what  was't  upon  her  cheek? 
What  was  there  rising  in  her  breast,  that  then  she  scarce  could  speak? 

She  thought  upon  her  ain  guidman,  her  lightsome  laddies  three ; 

The  woman's  words  had  pierced  her  heart,  —  "  They're  dear  fish  to  me ! " 

"  Come  back,"  she  cried,  with  quivering  voice,  and  pity's  gathering  tear; 
"  Come  in,  come  in,  my  poor  woman,  ye're  kindly  welcome  here. 

"  I  kentna  o'  your  aching  heart,  your  weary  lot  to  dree ; 

I'll  ne'er  forget  your  sad,  sad  words :  '  They're  dear  fish  to  me ! ' " 

Ay,  let  the  happy-hearted  learn  to  pause  ere  they  deny 

The  meed  of  honest  toil,  and  think  how  much  their  gold  may  buy, — 

How  much  of  manhood's  wasted  strength,  what  woman's  misery, — 
What  breaking  hearts  might  swell  the  cry :  "  They're  dear  fish  to  me  1 " 


THE  ARROW  AND    THE   SONG. 

THE  ARROW  AND  THE  SONG. 


609 


THE  words  of  this  song  were  written  by  LONGFELLOW.  The  composer  of  the  music, 
MICHAEL  WILLIAM  BALFE,was  bora  in  Dublin,  Ireland,  May  15,  1808.  At  the  age  of  eight, 
he  played  a  concerto  on  the  violin  at  a  public  concert,  and  a  year  later  he  wrote  a  ballad, 
"The  Lover's  Mistake,"  which  Madame  Vestris  introduced  into  the  opera  of  "Paul  Pry." 
In  1823  he  went  to  London  with  Charles  Edward  Horn,  as  an  articled  pupil.  He  was  soon 
engaged  as  principal  violinist  at  the  Drury  lane  oratorios,  and  in  the  orchestra  under 
Thomas  Cooke.  He  was  also  cultivating  his  rich  baritone  voice.  Count  Mazzara,  fancying 
he  resembled  a  son  whom  his  wife  had  lost,  took  young  Balfe  to  Kome,  where  the  Countess 
received  him  tenderly.  He  studied  in  Eome,  Milan,  and  Paris,  and  in  the  latter  city,  ap- 
peared as  Figaro  in  the  "  Barber  of  Seville,"  and  made  a  great  success.  He  came  to  the 
United  States  with  his  wife,  and  sang  in  opera,  and,  returning  to  London,  appeared  in  his 
own  first  opera,  "  The  Siege  of  Eochelle."  From  that  time  he  devoted  himself  especially 
to  composition,  and  produced  his  well-known  operas,  of  which  "The  Bohemian  Girl"  is 
the  most  popular.  Balfe  died  in  London  October  20,  1870. 


I    shot  an      ar-row         in    -    to    the       air, It      fell      to     earth,      I 


IS 


F~1 rT~  TTfi T  ~? 

^la^JEEE 


:=J H 


S  5  5  3 


610 


OUR   FAMILIAR  SONGS. 


-9 9 * g»- 


I  breath'd  a  song 


f* 


•*•     •*•   -+   -+ 

dim. 


** 


•»      •*  •*•»•* 

43     4  4  4 


T 


33333 


fX3==f=£=3 

2335^ 


1 


j^-^jp-—  1— 

T  f 

t  — 

—  r   :  . 

Jb  —  _£  j  _ 

TT-K       -K 

^-tt  —  *  « 

•J 

•  —  ,  e. 

_j  ,  —  i 

*   J           i             ' 

tne 

j                    ] 

know  not  where  ; 

-^  14= 

^        3 

it         •• 

t      * 

i 

r-s 

!•  -9 

- 

* 

?-  < 
a 

it            •» 

1  j    i  ..     j_,. 

r~    *  '  *~ 

•?         •? 

-s  0  —  0     ti~ 

•at              5       "*"       __ 

'  —  —  fr  i  ' 



—  «—      —  i  »  ar-^ 

-9r    -0r 
44 


3 


3      333 


I£±I£=^^F     r'~7~^-^  E!J^^^^EE;EE^ 


For    who    has    sight so  keen  and  strong,  That  it     can   fol  -    low     the 

1 1 \_ 


Zft 


*f 


^H 


4 


Ef 


-*- 


flight     of       a      song? 


For    who    has    sight  so        keen       and     so       strong,. 


3 


^^J 


ff^^f^^ 


i£r* 


.,      i          j 

* 


5=    -••« 

•*   •*•     -*••*•—(• 


-;     i= 
•»t    it 


THE  ARROW  AND    THE   SONG. 


611 


LlEE^ 


That      it        can        fol 


low     the    flight      of         a     song? 


::1— : 


:z)=:  = 


1    --  1 


dim. 


~ 


535 


1-4-        J« *=2=3 


Long,   long       af  -  forwards, 


PF 


^ 


3  3 
»  v 


^P^        ^F-        ^w^  ^PT  -wr 

^  u  =t       33 

•*••*••*•  W"  TT 


^:=3=*^ 
3  u  3  3 


rr^f 


— — 'H        '  ^   '™  '  ^  K 

^E^=.=fc 


1 


in     an       oak. 


I    found    the      ar       -    row       still  un  -  broke; 


3    S 


3  3333 


And  the  song  from  be-ginning     to  end,  I  found  a  -gain     in   the  hemi 

i==J===i=:j=^;==5^^— ^  g«F~^        i     £"-     *        *      $*    + 


612 


OUR   FAMILIAR   SONGS. 


dim. 


And  the  §ong    from   be  -   gin  -  ning    to        end, 


4?*=S- 

&— i 


PP 


I    found  a  -gain       in    the 

— i         j 1 

1 -J 


j=-! ^J 


f»— * 

/  /#/«. 


f 


«- 


cres. 


Z7TT- 

•-  /•  f  j  i 

-B  »  S  *  -1 

heart       of      a    friend, 

£feb—  i  i— 

I      found    a    -  gain, 

.  ?   f  .  —  r  —  r  —  &  d 

1  <s  ^  ^ 
I     found     a  -   gain. 

P±=4    §_  ;  —  j 

P 

-  — 

<7V.r. 

3=     ET      d=E^ 

3=  —  1  1-  -s   i 

a  1  !  —  B 

_-5  H=—  -j  —  --J 

5  3*55 


7         3 


cres.          riten. 


— N K— T '^-  ••  ^-=: — »~N Ki — I ? 


I  found   a -gain        in    the       heart of      a  friend! 

!=J==J=: 


cres.          riten. 


tempo 


==^     _J_^^rE^^-JL-J         IT-.       l-i+4-p-    =T~ 


•*•       •*• 


3  * 


•*••*•       •*• 


?l 


j— j—^ 

•*•     dim. 


w 


PPP 


r 


3=* 


\ — -jKg- 


•*•      *• 


THE    CARRIER   BIRD. 

THE    CARRIER   BIRD. 


613 


THE  carrier  dove  of  the  East  has  long  been  one  of  the  romantic  objects  of  song  and 
story  j  but  it  is  always  associated  with  messages  of  love  or  warning  except  in  this  simple 
instance,  in  which  MOORE  uses  it  to  point  a  pleasant  moral.  The  duet  to  which  "  The  Car- 
rier Bird"  is  set,  was  composed  by  SILAS  BRUCE. 


1.  The     bird     let      loose    in       east  -  era  skies, When  hast  - 'ning    fond-ly        home, Ne'er 

2.  So      grant   me,     God,  from     ev' -  ry  care   And   stain      of       pas- sion       free, A- 


Tl,  4 


i 


ft 

9 


^m 


dtfi: 


£ 


P^ 


i  i 

stoops    to  earth   her       wing,  nor  flies  Where     i   -   die       war  -  biers       roam ; . 
loft,  through  Vir-tue's       pur  -  er     air,    To      hold    my     course      to  Thee  I. 


But 
No 


£_j    »  J    > 


fi^r-b-  a-^—     —  f-i  

p=f=     =i= 

1  j         IT1] 

i  ^  .  1  ^  ^   i 

d 

\  

-J-8  1  —  i 

^P  •  •  

_  —  ^  

high 
sin 


FT^ 

de   -  lay, 


she  shoots  thro'     air       and  light,      A  -  bove       all       low 

to  cloud,     no      lure        to   stay       My     soul,       as      home    she  springs:.. 


i 


Where 
Thy 


t 


=£=4£ 


ad  lib. 


=*=  __ 

s?.--s&<sh-£r  'srtt^.Bf  ssa  dinmss  as. 


C  C  ' 


614 


OUR    FAMILIAR    SONGS. 


THE  BEGGAR   GIRL. 

THIS  little  English  ballad  has  enjoyed  great  popularity.  Among  other  notices  of  it 
there  is  a  minute  account  of  its  having  been  sung  with  a  wonderful  effect  by  a  military 
officer  at  an  anniversary  dinner  given  at  the  sea-bathing  infirmary,  at  Margate,  in 
August,  1807. 

The  melody  was  composed  by  PIERCY. 
Grazioso. 


\ 


1.  O  -   ver  the  mount-  ain  and      o   -  ver    the  moor,  Hun  -  gry  and   bare  -  foot  I 

2.  Call      me  not      la  -    zy-back  beg  -  gar,  and   bold     e-nough,  Fain  would  I    learn  both  to 

3.  Oh!  think,while  you   rev-   el    so      care  -  less  and    free,  Se  -  cure  from  the  wind,  and  well 


m 


i 


t 


wan  -  der    for  -  lorn,        My       fa  -  ther     is      dead,  and   my    moth  -  er      is     poor,  And     she 
knit    and     to      sew;       I've     two     lit  -  tie    broth -ers     at    home,when  they're  old      e-nough, 
cloth  -  ed    and      fed,    Should    for  -  tune    so  change    it,   how    hard      it  would    be  To 


grieves 

They 

beg 


for    the      days      that  will      nev   -    er      re  -   turn, 
will  work   hard       for  the     gifts      you     be  -    stow. 
at       a       door       for     a       mor  -   sel     of      bread! 


THE  BEGGAR    GIRL, 


615 


^=^=3: 


~N NT 


5E 


Cold  blows  the  wind,  and     the  night's    com-    ing         on;  Give     me  some  food      for  my 


1L, - 


moth  -  er       for    char    -    i  -  ty,      Give      me       some    food,      and       then       I        will  be  gone 


TOO    LATE. 

THIS  song  is  sung  by  the  "little  maid"  to  Queen  Guinevere,  in  TENNYSON'S  poem  of 
that  name  in  "  Idyls  of  the  King."    The  music  is  by  Miss  LINDSAY,  an  English  lady. 

Andante  Lar ghetto.  :> 

I£==*=Z-H».-. *-'       I         I  "^^^^P^-^i 

£-     =3r3==i=  :=*=^3S^B 


Late,      late,     so  late  I  and  dark  the  night,  and  chill  1 


:3 


:f 


-\ — -I ^ — : — ^ — -l — 9 r 

&= 


•g ^ — y     ^p  ~~^rz: 


Late,  late,     so  late!  But 

_ — £! —1      —1^^.  ^z 


-N—      — —  = 

EEEM= 


3~T 


616 


OUK   FAMILIAR   SONGS. 


m 


*—* 


Too         late—          too 


-9-       -r 

late,      ye  cannot       en-ter         now. 


EEg 


-? 


-*1 


5± 


jt-9-ripi 


3 


3=3=1=: 


No       light    had  we;  for    that  we    do        re-pent,         And,  learn    -     ing     this,  the 


•*•       Jf 


hridegroom  will    re-lent—  Too  late!  too  late!  ye   cannot        en-ter 


3=^ 


sf 


sf^ 


i  r 


-l-j— I 


now, 


Too         late,  Too  late,      ye  cannot       en-ter  now. 


^=1=  =^-M-^-jq 
3 


TOO    LATE. 


m 


No    light!        so    late!  and  dark  and  chill  the  night,  O         let  us     in, 


that 


•» 


r 


•*•  . 


/ 


r-H^rt 


we  may  find  the  light, 


O        let  us  in,         that  we      may  find          the  light. 


Too  late,  too  late,  ye      cannot         en  -ter          now. 


P- 


¥$==x=-       j 

- 

1  —  1  \  1 

1          7     <          T~ 

—  tj   P 

Too  late,  too  late,  ye       cannot         en  -ter          now 


618 


OUR   FAMILIAR  SONGS. 


:*=*: 


Have     we    not  heard,         the    bridegroom  is     so  sweet, 


O          let    us      in,  that 


•+•*-+       -+-*-+ 


s;3: 


m 


-*— 


0          let     us      in,       tho'          late,  to       kiss....         his     feet. 

7 J         fc — * fr-i  ^ 


r  ~z 


4= 


^ 


^ 


N 


No!  no! 


Too 


late,  ye    can-not         en-ter         now. 


=: 


• 
T  f 


r^ 


r 


qz=z^=:a 
*—i •* — & 


—- 


,      , 
•*••••••• 


TOO    LATE. 


Late,  late,  so  late  !  and  dark  the  night,  and  chill ! 
Late,  late,  so  late  !  but  we  can  enter  still. 
Too  late !  too  late  !  ye  cannot  enter  now, 
Too  late  —  too  late,  ye  cannot  enter  now. 
No  light  had  we :  —  for  that  we  do  repent, 
And  learning  this  the  bridegroom  will  relent. 
Too  late  — too  late  —ye  cannot  enter  now. 
Too  late,  too  late,  ye  cannot  enter  now  — 
No  light !  so  late  !  and  dark  and  chill  the  night, 


O  let  us  in,  that  we  may  find  the  light, 

Too  late,  too  late,  ye  cannot  enter  now, 

Too  late !  too  late  !  ye  cannot  enter  now. 

Have  we  not  heard,  the  bridegroom  is  so  sweet, 

O  let  us  in,  that  we  may  kiss  his  feet. 

O  let  us  in,  O  let  us  in, 

O  let  us  in,  tho'  late,  to  kiss  his  feet! 

No  !  no !  too  late,  ye  cannot  enter  now. 

O  let  us  in,  that  we  may  find  the  light 


EVENING  SONG  TO  THE  VIRGIN. 

THE  words  to  the  following  sweet  and  familiar  air,  were  written  by  MRS.  HEMANS  It 
.&  the  hymn  sung  by  a  Eoman  Catholic  wife,  and  is  contained  in  "The  Forest  Sanctuary." 
The  listening  woman  says : 

Thy  sad,  sweet  hymn,  at  eve,  the  seas  along,— 

Oh  1  the  deep  soul  it  breathed  I  —  the  love,  the  woe, 

The  fervor,  poured  in  that  full  gush  of  song, 

As  it  went  floating  through  the  fiery  glow 

Of  the  rich  sunset !  —  bringing  thoughts  of  Spain, 

With  all  her  vesper-voices,  o'er  the  main, 

Which  seemed  responsive  in  its  murmuring  flow. 

"  Ave  sanctissima !  "  —  how  oft  *hat  lay 

Hath  melted  from  my  heart  the  martyr-strength  away. 

"  Ora  pro  nobis,  Mater ! "    What  a  spell 

Was  in  those  notes,  with  day's  last  glory  dying 

On  the  flushed  waters— seemed  they  not  to  swell 

From  the  far  dust,  wherein  my  sires  were  lying 

With  crucifix  and  sword  ?  —  Oh  I  yet  how  clear 

Comes  their  reproachful  sweetness  to  mine  ear! 

"  Ora,"  — with  all  the  purple  waves  replying, 

All  my  youth's  visions  risiug  in  the  strain  — 

And  I  had  thought  it  much  to  bear  the  rack  and  chain! 


A    -    ve    Sane  -  tis    -si  -ma, 


We    lift     our  souls     to 

m  m         m  ft 


thee; 


O    -    ra 


jfe^^3^B3 

9~- jr-g-»—-r~* 


^g^JIPli 


Far     o'er  the     wa  -  ter  spread,  Hear  the  heart's    lone  -  ly   sigh,    Thine  too  hath  bled. 


620 


OUR  FAMILIAR  SONGS. 


•  r 


d=fc^z 
**•       •*    •*• 


Thou    that    hast  look'd     on    death,      Aid         us    when  death       is    near;        Whis  -  per      of 


ftfdtfe 


r~rr 


==  ^=g=g=pE=  =g=TS==f^Ii=T= 

F        -|r-f^==ti  :gizi^=^ 

— r — ^t — ^— -      rT^^F— 


;g=^=4i     !        N~T=^=q — B-  ^ — -"^Ffe — ^T===^:ff:::^:=i::=:^-"^P:t~==?:=: 


heav'n    to  faith,  Sweet  mother, 


sweet    mother,    hear! 


O  -       ra    pro  no    -  bis,   The 


wave  must  rock    our  sleep, 


O  -  ra,  Ma  -  ter,      O    -    ra,     Star       of    the  deep. 


THE   RAINY   DAY. 

THE  author  of  "  The  Eainy  Day,"  HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFSLLOW,  was  born  in  Port- 
land, Maine,  February  27, 1807.  He  was  for  many  years  professor  of  modern  languages  and 
literature  at  Harvard,  and  resided  in  Cambridge  till  his  death  in  March,  1882. 

The  music  is  by  WILLIAM  EICHARDSON  DEMPSTER,  who  was  born  in  Keith,  Scotland,  in 
1809.  He  spent  his  early  life  in  Aberdeen,  where  he  was  apprenticed  to  a  quill-maker,  but 
simply  followed  the  bent  of  his  own  genius  iu  quitting  his  trade  and  devoting  himself  to 
music.  He  emigrated  to  the  United  States,  remained  several  years  hero,  and  iii'trnvard,  by 
frequent  voyages,  spent  his  life  about  equally  ou  the  two  sides  of  the  Atlantic. 

One  of  his  earliest  successful  publications  was  his  music  for  Tennyson's  "  May  Queen,* 
and  the  frequent  songs  introduced  in  Tennyson's  longer  poems  became  his  especial  favorites 
for  composition ;  indeed,  his  musical  setting  of  these  is  the  work  by  which  he  is  best  known, 
and  his  own  singing  of  them  constituted  the  chief  attraction  of  his  concerts.  Their  popu- 
lar success  was  much  greater  in  America  than  in  Great  Britain.  His  voice  lacked  the 
strength  and  volume  necessary  in  a  large  hall,  but  in  parlor  singing  his  performances  were 
exquisitely  effective. 

In  his  early  professional  life  Mr.  Dempster  was  greatly  aided  and  encouraged  by  Mrs. 
Isabella  Browning,  a  pianist  of  note,  who  at  that  time  was  at  the  head  of  musical  affairs  in 
Aberdeen.  In  his  later  years  the  income  from  his  published  music  made  him  independent. 
He  died  in  London,  March  7,  1871,  surrounded  by  friends  to  whom  he  had  long  endeared 
himself  by  his  warm-hearted  and  genial  disposition,  no  less  than  by  his  strict  morality. 


THE   RAINY  DAY. 


621 


Andante. 


By  special  permission  of  Messrs.  OLIVER  Drrsos  &  Co. 


^3J 

r  I—  ri  [—  rl  -j   i  rl 

...  j  j           ~TJ                j            j        s»       j                   3       a            « 

1  '""^l 

bj^^ 

1.  The 
2.    Mv 
3.    Be 

»               0           &>               0_           0(3    +*      *           0     0       r           f                                —  p  — 

i  1  —             —  -  —  p  1  r                                       p     y— 

day            is         cold,        and       dark,        and       drear  -   y;        It       rains,        and  the 
life            is         cold,        and       dark,        and       drear  -  y;        It       rains,        and  the 
still,         sad       heart!       and       cease          re     -     pin   -   ing;      Be   -   bind           the 

—     .,...-—     —     i    i    i    i    i        |              i        —                       —] 

J 

N^  L  ^h-l--  L-  f-rf-J  1-  1—  J  J    1   i 

-0-                   -0~            ~0~                   0m             "0*                                     0                                  '  0 

i  t-C           t=E                    I      ,  J— 

rJ               I' 

nt/i.  —  3  —  w  — 

-—  —  ^—  -j  •  —  3  —       —  —  ^—       -•      -^  *— 

-¥  —  5—  1~ 

X—^r)     ;/!_ 

1       »s      0                  EZT3I            1       "^      •          1              *• 

0       S      V 

L_^  L_^  1__^  J  ,  

JH^  5  

—  »  —  ^  —  —  i*  —  i  ,^3  i*  —  P  —  p  —  —  p  •* 

_p:  p  —  i^—j 

_|  J  W--J 

wind 
wind 
clouds 

T                   ' 

is            nev    -       er           wea  -    ry;      The         vine           still           clings           to    the 
is            nev    -       er            wea  -    ry;      My      thoughts       still            cling          to    the 
the           sun            is            shin  -   ing;     Thy          fate            is    the      com      -       mon 

-j     J       ,  ±0  J    g     -±  -»•       -0-  -"•  V  -000  •-0-  •*• 

"•"                    "•*                        "•*                    '  ^                                               0 

—  al  J  —  ^  —  J  —*>  —  I^S~1II*~Z    r^~~- 

=S=ST^=srJ 

0-000  0"  + 

-  9              0  *  i  LJ    -6  ^—,  

f°                  00- 

mould 
mould 
fate 

-       'ring       wall,         But    at          ev'        -        ry        gust          the 
-       'ring       past,         But  the       hopes               of       youth 
of           all,              In       -        to                each       life         some 

dead       leaves 
thick          in  the 
rain        must 

!J  ** 

r-—\                       1  •  1  

MM 

£jfr  —  -^           \  -£---        \  ^  •          \  *  '      -. 

Efe^sT" 

-^l^^ep^        _j  1_|-        i   ^^^=|!^=^  

fall, 
fall,' 

fc 

id^^tz  -&—    _,^~p~  -JL-—-1—--  ^j^-+-J—  f—.  * 

„_  ^         Hr««r  -  v                               And  th<* 

And  the      day            is                 dark                                                                            A  ml  the 

And  the     days          are                dark                              arear     y,.-                             ^^ 

Some       days        must  be         dark 

^p 

—  F5-                                   ^=*==^^^^ 

=*=              SZZ  =E^=  -^^ 

—  —l—gj-  . 

622 


OUR   FAMILIAR   f>'OAr&S. 


3 


32: 


day        is  dark 

days      are  dark 

days     must  be     dark 


and  drear- y. 
and  drear- y, 
and  drear- y. 


And  the  day  is 
And  the  days  are 
Some  davs  must  be 


dark  and 
dark  and 
dark  and 


drear  -  y. 
drear  -  y. 
drear  - 


The  day  is  cold,  and  dark,  and  dreary ; 
It  rains,  and  the  wind  is  never  weary ; 
The  vine  still  clings  to  the  mouldering  wall, 
But  at  every  gust  the  dead  leaves  fall, 
And  the  day  is  dark  and  dreary. 

My  life  is  cold,  and  dark,  and  dreary : 
It  rains,  and  the  wind  is  never  weary . 


My  thoughts  still  cling  to  the  mouldering  past, 
But  the  hopes  of  youth  fall  thick  in  the  blast, 
And  the  days  are  dark  and  dreary. 

Be  still,  sad  heart!  and  cease  repining; 
Behind  the  clouds  is  the  sun  still  shining; 
Thy  fate  is  the  common  fate  of  all, 
Into  each  life  some  rain  must  fall, 
Some  days  must  be  dark  and  dreary. 


MY   MOTHER'S   BIBLE. 

THE  words  of  "My  Mother's  Bible,"  were  written  by  GEORGE  P.  MORRIS.  An  English 
writer  says  of  him :  "  You  can  hardly  know  the  place  General  Morris  has  made  himself 
among  all  classes  here.  His  many  songs  and  ballads  are  household  words  in  every  home 
in  England.  After  all,  what  are  all  the  throat-warblings  in  this  world  to  one  such  heart-song 
as  'My  Mother's  Bible!'" 

N.  P.  Willis,  General  Morris's  life-long  friend,  wrote  of  him :  "  My  dear  sir :  To  ask  me 
for  my  idea  of  Mr.  Morris,  is  like  asking  the  left  hand's  opinion  of  the  dexterity  of  the  right. 
I  have  lived  so  long  with  the  'Brigadier' — known  him  so  intimately — worked  so  con- 
stantly at  the  same  rope,  and  thought  so  little  of  ever  separating  from  him  (except  by 
precedence  of  ferriage  over  the  Styx),  that  it  is  hard  to  shove  him  from  me  to  the  perspec- 
tive distance — hard  to  shut  my  own  partial  eyes  and  look  at  him  through  other  people's. 
I  will  try,  however,  and  as  it  is  done  with  but  one  foot  off  the  treadmill  of  my  ceaseless 
vocation,  you  will  excuse  both  abruptness  and  brevity. 

"  Morris  is  the  best  known  poet  of  the  country, — by  acclamation,  not  by  criticism.  He 
is  just  what  poets  would  be  if  they  sang  like  birds,  without  criticism ;  and  it  is  a  peculiarity 
of  his  fame  that  it  seems  as  regardless  of  criticism  as  a  bird  in  the  air.  Nothing  can  stop  a 
song  of  his.  It  is  very  easy  to  say  that  they  are  very  easy  to  do.  They  have  a  momentum 
somehow,  that  is  difficult  for  others  to  give,  and  that  speeds  them  to  the  far  goal  of  popu- 
larity— the  best  proof  consisting  in  the  fact  that  he  can  at  any  moment  get  fifty  dollars  for 
a  song  unread,  when  the  whole  remainder  of  the  American  Parnassus  could  not  sell  one  to 
the  same  buyer  for  a  shilling.  It  may  or  may  not  be  one  secret  of  his  popularity,  but  it 
is  a  truth  that  Morris's  heart  is  at  the  level  of  most  other  people's  and  his  poetry  flows  out 
by  that  door.  He  stands  breast-high  in  the  common  stream  of  sympathy,  and  the  fine  oil 
of  his  poetic  feelings  goes  from  him  upon  an  element  it  is  its  nature  to  float  upon,  and 
which  carries  it  safe  to  other  bosoms  with  little  need  of  high-flying  or  deep  diving.  His 
sentiments  are  simple,  honest,  truthful,  and  familiar ;  his  language  is  pure  and  eminently 


MY  MOTHERS  BIBLE. 


623 


musical,  and  he  is  prodigally  full  of  the  poetry  of  every-day  feeling.  These  are  days  when 
poets  try  experiments ;  and  while  others  succeed  in  taking  the  world's  breath  away  with 
flights  and  plunges,  Morris  uses  his  feet  to  walk  quietly  with  nature.  Ninety-nine  people 
in  a  hundred,  taken  as  they  come  in  the  census,  would  find  more  to  admire  in  Morris's 
songs  than  in  the  writings  of  any  other  American  poet;  and  that  is  a  parish  in  the  poetical 
Episcopate  well  worthy  a  wise  man's  nurture  and  prizing. 

"As  to  the  man  — Morris,  my  friend— I  can  hardly  venture  to  'burn  incense  on  his 
moustache/  as  the  French  say— write  his  praises  under  his  very  nose— but  as  far  off  as 
Philadelphia,  you  may  pay  the  proper  tribute  to  his  loyal  nature  and  manly  excellences. 
His  personal  qualities  have  made  him  universally  popular,  but  this  overflow  upon  the 
world  does  not  impoverish  him  for  his  friends.  I  have  outlined  a  true  poet  and  a  fine  fel- 
low, fill  up  the  picture  to  your  liking." 

The  music  of  this  song  was  composed  by  HENRY  EUSSELL. 


ma    -    ny    gen   -    er    -       a  -    tionspast,   Here        is       our    fam   -   'ly  tree:  My 

speak      of   what   these       pa  -    ges  said,      In       tones     my  heart  would       thrill!        Though 

-dt-±— 


mo  -   ther's  bauds     this 
they       are      with      the 


Bi   -    ble    clasp'd;     She,       dy 
si   -    lent       dead,     Here       are 


ing,   gave        it          me. 
they     liv  -    ing         still. 


T 

My  father  read  this  holy  book 

To  brothers,  sisters  dear ; 
How  calm  was  my  poor  mother's  look, 

Who  leaned  God's  word  to  hear. 
Her  angel  face  —  I  see  it  yet! 

What  thronging  memories  come  ! 
Again  that  little  group  is  met 

Within  the  halls  of  home. 


Thou  truest  friend  man  ever  knew, 

Thy  constancy  I've  tried; 
Where  all  were  false,  I  found  thee  true, 

My  counsellor  and  guide. 
The  mines  of  earth  no  treasure  give 

That  could  this  volume  buy ; 
In  teaching  me  the  way  to  live, 

It  taught  me  how  to  die. 


624 


OUR    FAMILIAR    SONGS. 


THE    INQUIRY 


THE  words  of  the  following  beautiful  but  dreadfully  be-parodied  song  were  written  by 
CHABLES  MACKAY,  and  the  music  was  composed  by  CIPRIANO  GORRIN.  Gorrin  was  of 
Spanish  descent,  was  a  fine  musician,  and  for  some  years  was  a  teacher  of  music  in  the 
city  of  New  York. 


1.  Tell          me,  ye  wing- ed    winds That   round       my    pathway    roar,. 


J  *  \  '  i 


¥3^3 


0> — .£- 


5 


W 1 _I 


Do  ye  not  know  some       spot          Where     mor  -  tals  weep      no     more?  Some 

3£ — i  i  i   i — i — i — d — i — i— « y— = — d— i — =-+• 


S^    E£E^ 


lone       and  pleas  -  ant,  pleas  -  ant    dell,      Some     val  •    ley     in    the         west, 


m 


Where 


SE 


free     from  toil       and       pain, 


Where  free     from  toil       and       pain, 


^ 

000 


Where 


G25 


free     from     toil       and 


The  wea   -   ry   soul      may     rest? 


J  J 


»i  "i 
^tt£ 


2.   Tell       mf ,    thou    mighty     deep,  \\Hiose  billows  round        me      play. 


1     3 


Know'st       thou  some  fa-vor'd       spot,....        Some       is    -   land   far         a-   way, 


Where 


, £- • 


wea   -    ry,  wea  -    ry     man      may  find        The    bliss,     the  bliss       for  which    he  sighs,  Where 


€26 


OUK   FAMILIAR   SONGS. 


m 


sor  -    row   nev   -   er        lives, 


Where  sor  -   row    nev   -   er         fives, 


Where 


^^^ 


- 


r  •    h 


a± 


sor-    row   nev-er,  nev-er      lives,          And    friend  -  ship  nev  -  er,  nev-    er       dies? 


3 


3^ 


s  i     i 


3.  And  thou,          se  -   ren  -  est    moon. 


That 


ho  - 


Dost 


4-* 


i 
TT  V 


33 


•  J'f  rl 


^ 


look       up  -  on       the       earth,....  A    -    sleep       in  night's    em  -  brace, 


Tell 


^JVU-Eg 

-i 1 * ** 


^4    ^  J 


THE    INQ  UIEY. 


627 


me,       tell   me         in       all        thy  round,    Hast    thou      not  seen     some    spot,  some  spot  Where 


-  T 


mis    -    er  -    a    -    ble       man, 


Where  mis    -    er  •  a    -    ble       man, 


Where 


Might       find        a       hap     -     pier          lot? 


mis    -    er   -    a    -     ble       man 


Dr.  Mackay's  poem,  as  sometimes  happens,  has  suffered  loss  of  sense  in  being  set  to 
music.    By  discarding  the  refrain,  the  composer  obscures  the  main  point, 
stanza  is: — 

Tell  me,  my  secret  soul, 

O  tell  me,  Hope  and  Faith, 
Is  there  no  resting-place 

From  sorrow,  sin  and  death  ? 
Is  there  no  happy  spot 

Where  mortals  may  be  blest  — 
Where  grief  may  find  a  balm, 

And  weariness  a  rest  ? 

Faith  Hope,  and  Trvth  —  best  boons  to  mortals  given - 
Waved  their  bright  wings,  and  answered,  «  Yes,  in  heaven." 


628 


OUR    FAMILIAR    SONGS. 

THE   BETTER   LAND. 


THE  words  of  this  song  were  written  by  MRS.  HEMANS;  the  music  was  composed  by  her 
sister,  MRS.  ARKWRIGHT. 


iPI 


1.  I  hear      thee  speak      of    the      bet  -   ter     land,    Thou          call'st      its     children    a 

2.  Is   it    where     the  feath  -    er  -  y      palm-trees    rise,     And  the       date  grows  ripe  un- «1<  r 


in 


^ 


^ 


-p-ft— 

•>'*  •>  f  •: 


^ 


g=f 

v i»*- 


hap    -     py     band;  Moth-er,          oh!  where    is      that  ra   -   diant  shore? 

sun    -     ny     skies?       Or    midst  the         green    is-  lands     of  glit  -   t'ring   seas;     Where 


Is      it 


Shall  we    not     seek      it      and    weep       no     more?      Is      it        where     the    flow'r     of      the 
fra   -   grant    for  -  ests      per  -  fume       the    breeze,   And  strange,  bright  birds     on     their 


or    -    ange  blows,      And  the        fire 
star    -     ry    wings,    Wear  the         rich 


flies  dance    in       the     myr    -     tie  boughs? 
hues      of       all       glo   -   rious    things? 


THE  BETTER   LAND. 


629 


there,   NoUhcre,    my        chiw „„,       ^    ^    ^   ^     '    ^^ 

>$~          — —       r^  , P5 -£V 


I  hear  tliee  speak  of  the  better  land, 
Thou  caU'st  its  children  a  happy  band; 
Mother,  «ih  !  where  is  that  radiant  shore? 
Shall  we  not  seek  it  and  weep  no  more  ? 
Is  it  wh<5re  the  flower  of  the  orange  blows, 
And  th«  fire-flie's  dance  in  the  myrtle  boughs  ? 
Not  th*»re  !  not  there  !  my  child. 

Is  it  where  the  feathery  palm  trees  rise, 
And  the  date  grows  ripe  under  sunny  skies, 
Or  iridst  the  green  islands  of  glittering  seas, 
Where  fragrant  forests  perfume  the  breeze, 
And  strange  bright  birds  on  their  starry  wings 
Wear  the  rich  hues  of  all  glorious  things  ? 
Not  there  !  not  there  !  my  child. 


Is  it  far  away  in  some  region  old, 
Where  the  rivers  wander  o'er  sands  of  gold, 
And  the  burning  rays  of  the  ruby  shine, 
And  the  diamond  lights  up  the  secret  mine  ? 
And  the  pearl  glows  forth  from  the  coral  strand, 
Is  it  there,  sweet  mother,  that  better  land  ? 
Not  there  !  not  there  !  my  child. 

Eye  hath  not  seen  it,  my  gentle  boy, 
Ear  hath  not  heard  its  sweet  songs  of  joy; 
Dreams  cannot  picture  a  world  so  fair, 
Sorrow  and  death  may  not  enter  there, 
Time  may  not  breathe  on  its  fadeless  bloom; 
For  beyond  the  clouds  and  beyond  the  tomb, 
It  is  there !  it  is  there  !  my  child. 


THERE'S   NOTHING  TRUE  BUT  HEAVEN. 

THIS  most  familiar  of  all  semi-religious  songs  is  one  of  TOM  MOORE'S  "  Sacred  Melo- 
dies."! should  have  been  glad  to  include  in  this  collection  much  fine  and  well-known 
sacre*d  music ;  but  it  was  impossible  to  enter  that  great  field  of  song,  from  which  enough 
for  a  separate  volume  would  have  to  be  taken. 


1.  This   world     is      all       a 

2.  And     false     the  light     on 

3.  Poor    wan-d'rers   of        a 


fleet  -  ing    show,  For  man's     il    -    lu  -  sioii 

glo  -  ry's  plumo,  As      fad-  ing     hues     of 

storm-  y       day  I  From  wave   to      wave  we're 


giv'n; 
ev'n; 
driv'n; 


S 


tt  - 


3^^ 


world  is  all  a 
false  the  light  on 
wan-d'rers  of  a 


fleet  -    ing     show,   For         man's 

glo  -    ry  a  plume,    As  fad  - 

storm  -   y       day!   From       wave 


il    -    lu  -    sion         giv'n.. 
ing    hues        of  ev'n;-. 

to     wave  we're        driv'n;. 


630 


OUR   FAMILIAR    SONGS. 


The 
And 
And 


smiles     of   joy, 
love    and  hope, 
fan  -  cy's  flash, 


the       tears      of   woe, 
and       beau  -  ty's  bloom, 
and         rea-  soil's  ray, 


De- 
Are 

Serve 


ceit  -    ful         shine, 
bios  -  soms     gather'd 
but       to          light 


de    - 

for 

the 


ceit 
the 
trou 


ful      flow, 

tomb,— 
bled     way, 


There'8  noth-  ing  true  but 
There's  noth-  ing  bright  but 
There's  noth-  ing  calm  but 


heav'n,  There's  noth  -  ing  true... 
heav'n,  There's  noth -ing  bright, 
heav'n,  There's  noth-iug  calm... 


but  heav'n 
but  heav'n 
but  heav'n 


but  heav'n,  There's  noth  -  ing 
but  heav'n,  There's  noth  -  ing 
but  heav'n,  There's  noth  -  ing 


This  world  is  all  a  fleeting  show, 

For  man's  illusion  given  ; 
The  smiles  of  joy,  the  tears  of  woe, 
Deceitful  shine,  deceitful  flow, 

There's  nothing  true  but  heaven. 

And  false  the  light  on  glory's  plume, 

As  fading  hues  of  ev'n ; 
And  love,  and  hope,  and  beauty's  bloom, 


Are  blossoms  gathered  for  the  tomb  — 
There's  nothing  bright  but  heaven. 

Poor  wanderers  of  a  stormy  day  ! 

From  wave  to  wave  we're  driven ; 
And  fancy's  flash  and  reason's  ray 
Serve  but  to  light  the  troubled  way; 

There's  nothing  calm  but  heaven. 


THE   PAUPER'S   DRIVE. 

THOMAS  NOEL,  author  of  the  words  of  this  quaint  song,  was  an  Englishman.  In  1841 
he  published  a  volume  of  "Rhymes  and  Roundelays."  He  lived  in  a  romantic  home  on  the 
Thames,  and  among  his  poems  is  a  pretty  song  about  that  river.  The  idea  of  "  The  Pau- 
per's Drive"  was  suggested  to  him  by  seeing  a  funeral  where  the  body  was  borne  upon  a 
cart  driven  at  full  speed. 

'The  music  of  the  song  is  the  composition  of  J.  J.  HTJTCHINSON. 


THE  PAUPElt'S  DWVE. 


631 


X*#fi  JN     IS-'      N       >S       N—  !  » 

*—%-—  N  IS  fc  1  N— 

^  V  X  N  V      \     _>_ 

1.  There's  a   grim  one-horse  hearse  in    a       jol  -  ly  round  trot  ;    To  the  church-yard  a    pau-plr 
Oh,      where  are  the  mourn-  ers?  a   -   las  !  there  are  none  :  He  has     left   not      a    gap     in    the 

'  '  l  ^m 

g  '  i  i  i  r  g  g 

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—  *-v  —  V  —  v  —  v  —  v  —  v—  J 

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go-  ing,       I      wot:     The        road      it        is    rough,   and  the  hearse   has      no  springs,  And 
world,  now   he's    gone;    Not  a     tear      in      the     eye       Of  child,   wo-  man,     or    man,   To  the 

»3f—  f  *-..     *        g          '    *~-f  f  f  f  0-9-  -9  9  0  0  m-f- 

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V  5  V  1  9    ?-'- 

g  g  g  r   gf^ 

IE    P    C    i     g  N 

^4/7  /^^  voices  in  unison. 

~*~        T*~        "<•"        ~!*~ 

(/        *T  JJ. 

^          k 

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^     P     ^           ", 

1                        1               «^ 

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^                         M                  M                 fl                 41                      MM 

•     *     *     f 

III 

hark     to      the    dirge   which  the 
,grave  with    his      car  -  cass    as 

rrs  —  f  —  f  —  f  —  f  f  —  f~ 

>     *     *     » 

sad     driv  -  er     sings  :  ) 
fast      as      you      can.  j 

r  —  0  P  0  0  

"  Rat  -  tie        his  bones 
Accomp. 
^  0  0  1 

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^y^*  |*  '       *        i*        P           |3 
o  -    ver      the  stones:        He's 

on  -  ly        a       pau  -  per  whom    no  -  bo  -  .dy    owns  ! 

rr—r—r—r-  r    r  \r    r    t—t—^ 

y«  harmony. 

f\         \                \    1        K           S    .,_SL  h. 

—  K—  x     ^  *-£—    II 

Rat  -tie    his  bones          o  -  ver  the  stones  :  He's    on  -  ly      a    pau-per  whom     no  -  bo  -  dy  owns  I" 

m       *      *      •        .--  1  f  •  •  0    i    0  0  *  0  0  ^    |    ,*  f  f  1?     || 

frFi—                        izsi"        L      L  —  L  2  ^"t                                 -t  —  »  —  •  —  •  — 

^^  c  D  D  r  —  \-*—*—* 

z=  —  =*  —  v  —  f  —  p- 

It.  '  ^    M   "" 

There's  a  grim  one-horse  hearse  in  a  jolly  round 

trot, 

To  the  churchyard  a  pauper  is  going,  I  wot 
The  road   it   is   rough,  and  the  hearse  has   no 

springs, 

And  hark  to  the  dirge  which  the  sad  driver  sings  : 
41  Rattle  his  bones  over  the  stones  : 
He's  only  a  pauper  whom  nobody  owns  !  " 


Oh,  where    are   the   mourners  ?   alas  I    there  are 

none : 

He  has  left  not  a  gap  in  the  world,  now  he's  gone ; 
Not  a  tear  in  the  eye  of  child,  woman,  or  man, 
To   the   grave  with   his  carcass  as  fast  as  you 

can. 

"  Rattle  his  bones  over  the  stones ; 
He's  only  a  pauper  whom  nobody  owns!  " 


r>32 


OUR   FAMILIAR   SONGS. 


What  a  jolting,  and  creaking,  and  plashing,  and 

din ; 
The  whip  how  it  cracks !  and  the  wheels  how 

they  spin ! 
How  the  dirt,  right  and  left,  o'er  the  hedges  is 

hurled ! 

The  pauper  at  length  makes  a  noise  in  the  world  ! 
"  Rattle  his  bones  over  the  stones  : 
He's  only  a  pauper  whom  nobody  owns !  " 

Poor    pauper    defunct!     he     has    made     some 

approach 
To    gentility,    now    that     he's    stretched    in    a 

coach ! 

He's  taking  a  drive  in  his  carriage  at  last, 
But  it  will  not  be  long,  if  he  goes  on  so  fast. 
"  Rattle  his  bones  over  the  stones  ; 
He's  only  a  pauper  whom  nobody  owns. 


But  a  truce  to  this  strain ;  for  my  soul  it  is  sad 
To  think  that  a  heart,  in  humanity  clad, 
Should  make,  like  the  brute,  such  a  desolate  end, 
And   depart  from  the   light,    without    leaving   a 

friend ! 

"  Bear  soft  his  bones  over  the  stones ; 
Though  a  pauper,  he's  one  whom  his  Maker 
yet  owns ! " 

You  bumpkins !  who  stare  at  your  brother  con- 
veyed — 

Behold  what  respect  to  a  cloddy  is  paid ! 

And  be  joyful  to  think,  when  by  death  you're  laid 
low, 

You've   a  chance   to   the  grave   like  a  gemman 
to  go ! 

"  Rattle  his  bones  over  the  stones  ; 
He's  only  a  pauper  whom  nobody  owns  ! " 


THE   OLD   SEXTON. 

PARK  BENJAMIN,  author  of  the  words  of  "  The  Old  Sexton,"  was  bora  in  Demerani, 
British  Guiana,  August  14,  1809.  His  parents  had  removed  there  from  New  England,  and, 
on  account  of  illness  in  his  infancy,  which  resulted  in  serious  lameness,  Park  was  sent  to 
his  father's  home  in  Connecticut  for  medical  treatment.  He  studied  at  Trinity  and  Harvard 
Colleges,  and  began  to  practice  law  in  Boston.  He  soon  left  the  profession,  devoted  him- 
self to  literary  pursuits,  and  became  founder,  editor,  or  contributor  of  several  American 
magazines.  His  lyrics  attained  wide  popularity,  but  have  never  been  collected ;  some  of 
them,  it  is  said,  have  not  even  been  in  print,  but  have  descended  from  school-boy  to 
school-boy  as  declamations.  Mr.  Benjamin  died  in  New  York  city,  September  12,  1864. 
"The  Old  Sexton"  was  written  expressly  for  HENRY  RUSSELL,  who  composed  the  music. 


I 


m 


. 

a  grave 
are  with 


Nigh 
Ma  - 


to 
ny 


that  was 
me,  but 


new 
still 


-   ly    made,  Leaned  a 
I'm  a-lone,       I'm 


sex 
king 


-     ton        old,     on    bis 
of    the  dead—  and    I 


*-         •*• 


Staccato. 


Colla  voce. 


1 


^ 


m 


w 


earth  -   worn  spade,       His        work     was      done,     and    he    paused     to       wait 
make        my  throne       On  a      monu-ment     slab  of  mar  -   ble       cold, 


The 
And  my 


THE    OLD  SEXTON. 


633 


fun'    -      ral      train  through  the      o    -       pen   sate  • 
seep  -   tre     of    rule        is     the   spade          I      hold; 


rel  -  ic        of  by  -  gone 

Come      they  from  cottage,  or 


. 

days        was       he,      And  his    locks       were  white       as    the     foam  -   v         sea;  And 

come  they  from  hall,       Man   -    kind       are  my  sub    -     jects,       all,        all,       all!         Let  them 


IttpZ        ,    •  •  •  v      ^- 

N            K 

—  1  1*1^'!*  — 

I              •*        ._ 

I  r 

1                 «•! 

gf*    J         J    Jj         J'    J' 

these       words  came    from  his 
loit    -    er     in  pleas  -  ure,   or 

-A—  J?  1 

lips           so       thin:         "I 
toil    -    ful  -  ly  spin  —       "  I 

1 
|          '             «       ••* 

-?—  ^  —  **—            -h- 
^   u                 B-l 

B^" 
gath  -  er       them      in, 
gath  -  er       them       in,            I 

-\  1  —  i-::l 

0  H-jj 

=d 

»  —  J 

1 

LJ  J  4 
-*--*-               T 

1  —  1 

(• 

1=^=1 

P    T 

N=^ 

1 

t3=M  1  L 

C  j  1 

Q     I 

T!  ' 

gath  -  er    them       in,  gath  -  er, 


634 


OUR   FAMILIAR   SONGS. 


gath  -  er, 
Sva 


ga-ther  them       in.". 


^ 


-j—,,  j  i  j— g 

S        SjUL^     '8       PI 
•5-         JTW*^     •*-          -0- 


^ 


s 


2.  "I    Rath  -   er  them  in!        for  man    and       boy,.... 

4.  "  I    gath  -   er  them  in,      and  their      &  -   nal        rest      Is 


Year     aft  -er   year        of 
here,     down     here,      in    the 


^ 


grief         and    joy,  Fve      build-   ed  the  houses          that      lie  a  -  round,  In 

earth's      dark  breast  !"  And  the    sex  -   ton  ceased  —  for        the        f  u  -   neral    train          Wound 


f 


A 


f 


THE    OLD  SEXTON. 


635 


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ev    -    'ry          nook       of    this 
mute   -    ly            o'er          that 

~&L*  1  1  1  1  1 

jfiL-j—  f.  -i       —  —                  — 

bu     -     rial  ground  ; 
sol    -     emn  plain;       And  I 

f™-!       i  —^  

M 

s 

)th-er      and       daugh  -  ter,— 
aid           to   my  heart  —  when 

(CD    v 

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;  J     J  i 

\  L 

iH 

:        ; 

« 

;  —  = 

^Ir^ 

2 

5 

i 

i  —  ^J 

i 


fa-ther      and   son, 
time  is     told, 


Come       to  my  sol  -  i-tude, 
A     might  -  ier  voice  than  that 


one        by       one,  —     But 
sex  -   ton's       old         Will 


i 


J^ 


j  ^.    ^ 


m 


come       they    stran  -  gers,  or     come     they        kin 
sound     o'er  the  last       trnmp's    dread  -  ful          din 


"  I      gath  -  er       them       in,  I 

"  I     gath  -  er       them       in,  I 


~S: 


•v 


gath  -  er    them       in, 


gath  -  er, 
8va 


gath-  er, 


Z~ 


fe 


P 


636 


OUR  FAMILIAR  SONGS. 


Nigh  to  a  grave  that  was  newly  made, 
Leaned  a  sexton  old  on  his  earth-worn  spade, 
His  work  was  done,  and  he  paused  to  wait 
The  funeral  train  at  the  open  gate. 
A  relic  of  bygone  days  was  he, 
And  his  locks  were  white  as  the  foamy  sea; 
And  these  words  came  from  his  lips  so  thin : 
"  I  gather  them  in  :  I  gather  them  in. 

"  I  gather  them  in  !  for  man  and  boy, 

Year  after  year  of  grief  and  joy'; 

I've  builded  the  houses  that  lie  around, 

In  every  nook  of  this  burial  ground ; 

Mother  and  daughter,  father  and  son, 

Come  to  my  solitude,  one  by  one,  — 

But  come  they  strangers  or  come  they  kin  — 

I  gather  them  in,  I  gather  them  in. 


"  Many  are  with  me,  but  still  I'm  alone, 

I'm  king  of  the  dead  —  and  I  make  my  throne 

On  a  monument  slab  of  marble  cold ; 

And  my  sceptre  of  rule  is  the  spade  I  hold ; 

Come  they  from  cottage  or  come  they  from  hall^ 

Mankind  are  my  subjects,  all,  all,  all! 

Let  them  loiter  in  pleasure  or  toilfully  spin  — 

I  gather  them  in,  I  gather  them  in. 

"  I  gather  them  in,  and  their  final  rest 

Is  here,  down  .here,  in  the  earth's  dark  breast!* 

And  the  sexton  ceased,  for  the  funeral  train 

Wound  mutely  o'er  that  solemn  plain  ! 

And  I  said  to  my  heart,  when  time  is  told, 

A  mightier  voice  than  that  sexton's  old 

Will  sound  o'er  the  last  trump's  dreadful  din  — 

"  I  gather  them  in,  I  gather  them  in." 


THE  GERMAN  WATCHMAN'S  SONG. 

IT  is  the  custom  of  some  of  the  watchmen  in  Germany  to  sing  songs  during  the  night, 
a  stanza  of  a  national,  amusing,  or  devotional  song,  for  a  kind  of  "  All's  well,"  as  they  an- 
nounce each  hour.  The  following  was  one  of  the  especial  favorites. 

The  music  was  composed  by  I.  HEFFERNAN. 


THE  GERMAN    WATCHMAN'S  SONG- 


637 


are   the    ho  -   ly    com- mandments  given,  To     man      be   -    low,   from   God      in   heav'n 
en     A,-  pos-tles    of       ho  -  ly  mind,  Taught  the        gos  -   pel       to      mankind 


Hu  -  man  watch  from  harm  can't    ward    us :      God    will  watch,  and      God    will  guard    us ; 


He,  through  his        E     -     ter   -    nal    might, 


I/  * 

Grant      us     all       a        bless  -  ed    night. 


5*j— r 
\r 


Hark  !  ye  neighbors,  and  hear  me  tell  — 
Twelve  resounds  from  the  belfry  bell  I 
Twelve  Disciples  to  Jesus  came, 
Who  suffered  rebuke  for  their  Saviour's  name. 
Human  watch,  etc. 

Hark!  ye  neighbors,  and  hear  me  tell  — 
One  has  pealed  on  the  belfry  bell ! 
One  God  above,  one  Lord  indeed, 
Who  bears  us  up  in  hour  of  need. 
Human  watch,  etc. 


Hark!  ye  neighbors,  and  hear  me  tell  — 
Two  now  rings  from  the  belfry  bell ! 
Two  paths  before  mankind  are  free, 
Neighbor,  Oh,  choose  the  best  for  thee  ! 
Human  watch,  etc. 

Hark !  ye  neighbors,  and  hear  me  tell  — 
Three  now  sounds  on  the  belfry  bell ! 
Threefold  reigns  the  heavenly  Host, 
Father,  Son,  and  Holy  Ghost ! 
Human  watch,  etc. 


ALL'S   WELL. 

THE  following  song  wa*  written  by  THOMAS  DIBDIN,  and  was  sung  in  "The  English 
Fleet,"  an  opera  written  by  S.  J.  Arnold.    The  music  is  by  JOHN  BRAHAM,  the  greal 
lish  tenor.    Braham  was  of  Hebrew  parentage,  and  on  one  occasion  when  he  was 
in-  in  his  most  glorious  manner  a  passage  from  -Israel  in  Egypt,- 
Pharaoh  went  with  his  chariots  and  with  his  horsemen  into  the  sea,  and  the  Lord  brought 


638 


OUR   FAMILIAR  SONGS. 


again  the  waters  upon  them,  but  the  children  of  Israel  went  on  dry  land  in  the  midst  of 
the  sea,"  Tom  Cooke  pulled  his  coat-tail  gently,  and  whispered,  "  It's  lucky  for  you  that 
they  did,  or  you  would  not  have  been  singing  here."  Braham  was  a  wag  himself,  as  well 
as  a  fine  mimic.  Catalini  was  in  the  height  of  her  glory  at  the  time  I  write  of,  and  the  great 
singer  off  the  stage  would  walk  about  the  room  saying :  "  You  see  dis  brooch  ?  De  Em- 
peror of  Austria  gave  me  dis.  You  see  dese  earrings  ?  De  Emperor  of  Russia  gave  me 
dese.  You  see  dis  ring  ?  De  Emperor  Napoleon  gave  me  dis,"  etc.  Mr.  Braham  would 
quietly  circle  round  the  room  saying  in  her  very  tone,  "You  see  dis  umbrella?  De  Em- 
peror of  China  gave  me  dis.  You  see  dese  teeth  ?  De  King  of  Tuscany  gave  me  dese." 

First  voice.  Adagio 


ZL~     25      re 

J        m          J                            1        J        • 

•        •  •        Ji 

KB  —  4  —  *--J        »  J- 

JC     '            »-J    |    •  •"      -J 

f  f  L  — 

J  ' 

1.    De-  sert  -    ed       by 

Second  voice. 

n  f 

the     wan    -    ing       moon,             When   skies 

1     r  |  ^  —  i 
pro  -claim     night's 

•                         •                                                      1 

1          1              ^ 

XT_         ^      "1 

-X  =1  fc-=fc 

J  1  J  — 

^o  —  4  

»  P  *— 

—  •  0—  - 

2.    Or,     sail   -  ing       on 

V 
the      mid   -  night       deep,              While    wea 

-    ry     mess  -  mates 

((>)$?  —  Q  M  P  si  P~~ 

~i~      T  *  —  R  —  ^r" 

^  F—     —  ^  — 

•^    _l  f-  —  1_|  —  p_p  —  a  —  u_ 

»i  1  ^  

_»    ^        M        1           p                                              \* 

»vNvNivNv               ^ 

j\                                       JA 

fm  —               —  P  *t  —  w~~= 

h^    *>  .    /    J  .    ^      J.^^3JS 

-*—  :  J*  *—  :  J*— 

cheer  -  less          noon, 

fi  *t     i         ^^ 

On      tow  -  er,  fort,     or      tent  -  ed  ground,The    sen  -  try  walks    his 

U  S                      J        1                        k 

fs           ic        N           ic        1 

/f         J           •                         03 

&~       P          ft'P"         fr         i^          ^j!5& 

ff      i          B 

g^.                     _  JE  ^  —  J_s 

-£-     J   .      /^     J   .  —  £-     J   .      f  *    H    JS 

0  .     ^     J  .     ^  

sound  -  ly            sleep, 

rhe     care-  ful  watch   pa-  trols    the  deck,  The    care-  ful  watch   pa- 

E2  ^  =f  P_a 

n  +»                         .  -    f    \ 

'•    LJ  LJ    _  J 

^ 

•y#                m       .  fc      l^ 

i*  •   «       «                             _ 

N                           *     m    *        B       \ 

/L       *  •    f    P    5    i 

1           D            l         ^                                                                "*      1 

KB  P  —  g    L»    "U 

*  —  $    -4  —  *  ~  n 

lone-ly  round,  The       sen 

-     try   walks             his      lone    -       ly    round. 

The       sen     -     try 

{)  S    is,     fc  j 

''•^ 

_             i 

—  x  i  a  —  N  —  j  N  —  s  x- 



^ff)  —  ^~  —  * 

~  aH^-  —  P  —  ft  —  |—  *- 

j 

trols  the  deck,  To       guard 

•    ^  -/.  y  -J- 

the     ship            from      foes            or    wreck, 

To       guard       the 

/S("\«tt     f 

.  ^     M    M    ^         1  [_^_ 

(K?*   j           ^  *1 

x  i  q  *  —  *  —  *  J  x 

0  if                                          ~~"~           N 

AH*grv. 

I                     S 

-—  P-  —  f-  P  P  — 

XW  —          '  —  0  —  1       F  p  *  ^  — 

"^~  ^i"  -r  —  r  —  r  —  r  —  p  —  p  —  *  —  p~ 

--b  —  h  —  b  —  b  — 

1  ,         1       ^^^^^  1 

L'     U     v     v       L      j      j     L 

walks     his        lone  -  ly    ro 

v       v       V       V 
uud.    And  should  some  foot-step    hap  -  ly  stray,  Whe 

"1      *•*           S         N         IS         IS           h.         h.         it. 

re  cau-tion  marks  the 

ship     from      foes     or    wi 

i 

J-  ^-  <T  J  ;   ;-  J  j  J"  ^ 

-eck  ;  And,  while  his  thoughts  oft  homeward  veer,  So 

-T~u"  C  H 

me  friendly  voice  sa- 

ll!                                   P 

1  ] 

'(&  —  &—^  —  fv-—  J  1  

^_o          1__J_ 

—  ^~ 

J                  J 

M                  '                                     J 

1                             J 

5 

ALL'S    WKLL. 


639. 


guard- ed  way ,Where  caution  marks  the  guard-ed  way,  the      guard  -  ed          way,  who  goes  there? 


t 


*1 


£ 


£=£ 


Jutes  his  ear— Some  friendly  voice   sa  -  lutes  hia  ear,  sa  -    lutes     his          ear—     what    cheer? 


Adagio. 


7k                —  •  

—  vi  =]  f*~ 

—g  ^  — 

—  5  

~T  5~ 

~^- 

sp                =3 

Stran  -  ger,         quick-  ly 

n  tt                        n. 

tell—      A    i 

r  * 

Friend!    The 

word?     Good 

-4  E: 

night! 

1 

IjT 

~y  «                           K      S 

PI 

k 

i          5      '  ^^™       1 

XL         F         m       1       _P       N 

E 

\» 

s»         -I       J 

n 

* 

•  '      } 

*P  F  f  —  —  —  *^ 

4*H 

•^            '       W 

J 

E 

w                *  '  & 

Broth-  er,         quick-  ly      tell  —      A-  bove  —      be  -  low—    Good    night! 

All's 

fij^  •  

•  

•  

1"  

•  

' 





DOWN   IN  THE  SUNLESS  RETREATS. 

THIS  is  one  of  MOORE'S  "  Sacred  Melodies."  The  music  to  which  it  is  here  set  is  the 
composition  of  OUTER  SHAW,  bora  in  1778,  He  was  a  teacher  of  music,  and  followed  that 
profession  in  Providence,  E.  I,  where  he  died,  December  31,  1848.  His  sacred  composi- 
tions include  "Mary's  Tears,"  "Nothing  true  but  Heaven,"  "Arrayed  in  Clouds/  and 
«  Home  of  my  Soul "  A  friend  writes  of  him :  «  He  was  a  man  of  placid  disposit 
trusive  manners  and  truly  Christian  character,  and  was  warmly  devoted  to  his  divine  art.' 


640 


OUB   FAMILIAR   SONGS. 


sea; 


Sweet 
The 


^ 


flow   -  ers    are       spring 
nee  -   die  points      faith 


ing,       no     mor  -   tal      can    see; 
ful    -    ly      o'er   the  dim-...   sea; 


Espressivo. 


j>->    i               -», 

b^y  ~!N 

-^—5  ^  —  p  —  uJ  —  J  —  pssk,-— 

.  __J  S—  t  —  *— 

So, 
So, 

deep       in     my 
dark       as       I 

soul        the      still    pray'r       of       de  -  vo    -      tion,  Un  - 
roam,        in       this     win   -     try    world  shroud  -  ed,  The 

-ft*  *—  r*  J  —  Ed  1  v  — 

$  pi 

t*_^j  -JZJ 

^^{  r  f   ^== 

1    j-            •!       Z 

W  3r- 

•*  ^=?=^ 

^X-i-?^*-. 

-*-  

•g<-  —          —  *  1  

±  /    7     1 

heard  by       the     world,          ris    -    es 

hope  of       my       spir  -  it      turns 


si       -      lent 
tremb  -      ling 


to 
to 


Thee; 
Thee  : 


=F3 


DO  WN  IN  THE  SUNLESS  RETREATS, 
ad  lib. 


641 


My 
My 


si -lent       to         Thee;  Pure,  warm,  si  -  lent      to 

trembling     to         Thee;  True,  fond,  trembling    to 


Expressive. 


o ,- 


-H 1- 


mf 


Thee  I  So,       deep       in      my       soul        the      still    pray'r       of       de  -  vo    -      tion,  Un  - 

Thee !  So,       dark       as       I        roam,        in      this     win   -     try    world  shroud  -  ed,  The 


heard 
hope 


by 
of 


the      world,  ris    -    es 

my         spir  -  it      turns 


si       -      lent       to 
tremb  -       ling       to 


Thee; 
Thee: 


heard 
hope 


-  ,  8i  -    lent       to  Thee! 

by        the      world;  ris 

of       my       spir    -    it       turns  trembling 


Un 

The 


OUR  FAMILIAR  SONGti. 

WHEN   SHALL   WE  THREE   MEET   AGAIN? 

THIS  most  familiar  song  has  been  long,  though  vaguely,  associated  with  the  early  days 
of  two  of  America's  oldest  colleges,  Dartmouth  and  Williams.  I  quote  below  the  letter 
which  an  eminent  educator  in  Massachusetts  wrote  to  The  Dartmouth,  a  periodical  pub- 
lished by  the  students  of  that  college.  "  The  legend  of  the  Old  Pine,  on  the  hill  back  of 
the  college,  in  Hanover,  was  told  me  when  I  was  a  child,  more  than  fifty  years  ago ;  and 
yet  a  graduate  of  Dartmouth  recently  said  he  had  never  heard  it !  The  story  is,  that  three 
Indians,  on  the  day  they  left  Dartmouth,  met  in  a  bower,  of  which  the  youthful  pine,  now 
a  venerable  tree,  was  one  of  the  trees,  and  sang  the  song,  '  When  shall  we  three  meet 
again?'  The  words  and  music  were  composed  by  one  of  their  number.  My  mother  told 
me  the  story,  and  from  her  lips  I  learned  both  the  words  and  the  music,  a  very  plaintive 
minor  strain.  The  only  commencement  I  ever  attended  at  Dartmouth,  was  in  1853,  when 
I  heard  Choate's  eulogy  of  Webster.  On  the  evening  of  that  day  I  was  walking  on  the  hill, 
for  the  sake  of  the  prospect,  and  the  pine  tree  was  pointed  out  to  me,  which  was  said  to 
be  older  than  the  college.  While  we  were  standing  there,  a  company  of  four  or  five  rather 
young  men,  evidently  alumni,  sang  the  very  song,  in  the  very  strain,  which  I  had  learned 
•when  a  child,  living  in  Connecticut." 

The  late  President  Smith  of  Dartmouth,  said  in  a  letter  to  me :"  I  do  not  believe, 
with  Artemus  Ward,  that  'Indians  is  pizen  wherever  you  meet  'em/ — but  that  any  Indian 
undergraduate,  or  Indian  just  graduate,  ever  wrote  so  beautiful  a  lyric  as  that  you  enquire 
about,  I  am  slow  to  think." 

On  the  other  hand,  a  New  Hampshire  poet  gives  me  the  following  account  of  his 
memory  and  opinion :  "I  think  there  must  be  something  in  the  legend,  because  I  distinctly 
remember  that,  in  1839,  one  Pierce,  an  Indian  (Cherokee)  of  the  class  of  1840,  came  to  rny 
home  [Newport,  N.  H.]  with  a  cousin  of  mine  who  was  in  the  same  class,  to  spend  a  few 
days  of  his  vacation,  and  was  at  my  mother's  house,  and  I  remember  that  he  sang  this 
same  song,  and  that  my  younger  sister  learned  both  the  words  and  the  music,  from  whom 
I  learned  them.  Some  of  the  Indian  graduates  at  Dartmouth  were  smart  fellows — I  think 
fully  equal  to  the  writing  of  this  song.  It  is  not  perfect  in  its  construction,  by  any  means; 
for  instance,  the  third  stanza,  which  is  somewhat  incoherent,  although  a  very  sweet,  pretty 
thing.  The  first  line  of  the  same  stanza  is  strong  evidence  of  Indian  origin,  as  Indians' 
hair  is  always  a  'burnished'  black,  and  here  were  three  black-haired  fellows." 

From  still  another  quarter  comes  the  legend  that  the  song  emanated  from  Williams 
College,  and  that  it  was  sung  by  three  young  men,  just  graduating  there,  who  had  met  in  a 
meadow,  in  the  shade  of  a  great  haystack,  to  consecrate  themselves  to  the  work  of  foreign 
missions  among  the  earliest  that  America  had  known.  One  of  their  number  was  said  to  have 
composed  the  song  entire,  and  the  especial  proof  lay  in  the  second  stanza : 

Though  in  distant  lands  we  sigh, 
Parched  beneath  a  hostile  sky ; 
Though  the  deep  between  us  rolls,— 
Friendship  shall  unite  our  souls, 
Still,  in  Fancy's  rich  domain, 
Oft  shall  we  three  meet  again. 

Three  standard  English  collections,  published  within  the  past  sixty  years,  have  con- 
tained the  song  without  the  stanza  to  which  tradition  points  in  proof  of  Indian  origin.  No 
authorship  of  the  words  is  given,  but  the  air  is  spoken  of  in  one  place  as  the  work  of 
Samuel  Webbe,  in  another  as  the  work  of  Dr.  William  Horsley.  SAMUEL  WEBBE,  was  an 
English  composer,  born  in  London  in  1740.  His  father,  who  was  wealthy,  died  suddenly 
When  about  to  assume  a  government  office  in  Minorca,  and  the  property  was  taken  from 


WHEN  SHALL   WE  THREE  MEET  AGAIN  f 

t>45 

his  widow  and  infant  son.    Mrs.  Webbe  was  rendered  so  destitute  that  she  was  obliged  to 
deny  her  son  education,  and  when  he  was  but  eleven  years  old  to  apprentice  him  to  a 
cabinet-maker.    This  business  he  hated,  and  though  he  knew  not  a  note  of  written  music 
his  fondness  for  the  art  led  him  to  undertake  to  copy  it.    He  copied  from  five  in  the  morn! 
ing  tifl  midnight.     He  also  studied  French,  Hebrew,  German,  and  Latin,  and  finally  em- 
ployed an  Italian  music-master,  after  which  he  attempted  composition.    His  music  was 
received  warmly,  and  he  became  a  favorite  teacher.    He  made  numberless  songs,  anthems 
masses,  etc.,  including  the  music  of  "When  shall  we  three  meet  again?"  which  is  spoken 
of  as  his  "  celebrated  glee." 

DR.  HORSLEY  was  a  well-known  English  composer,  born  thirty  years  later  than  Webbe 
whose  pupil  he  was.  He  either  made  a  new  composition  for  the  words  of  this  song  or 
re-arrranged  his  teacher's  air.  The  former  supposition  is  more  probable,  as  two  different 
airs  are  given. 

Where  the  song  appears  in  these  English  collections  there  is  no  definite  information  as 
to  the  authorship  of  the  words  j  but  one  of  the  three  attributes  them  to  "  a  lady."  Is  it  not 
probable  that  the  glee  was  written  before  the  words  which  accompanied  it?  The  words 
seem  like  those  of  some  one  leaving  home  for  a  foreign  land,  expecting  years  of  absence. 
May  it  not  be  that  they  were  written  by  the  wite  of  an  English  missionary  who  was  about 
to  accompany  her  husband  to  his  distant  work?  At  any  rate,  the  song  was  no  doubt  writ- 
ten in  England  and  brought  to  this  country  when  Dartmouth  College  was  in  its  infancy. 
The  first  Indian  graduates,  met  in  the  "bower"  for  their  farewell,  might  recall  the  song, 
but  would  desire  to  have  something  a  little  more  expressive  of  their  circumstances.  One 
of  their  number  would  write  the  stanza  which  Indicates  Indian  origin,  and  the  song  might 
pass  as  his  own,  without  such  intention  on  his  part.  In  corroboration  of  this,  is  the  fact 
that  that  stanza  is  not  contained  in  the  English  versions,  and  is  veiy  greatly  inferior  to  the 
rest  in  poetic  merit.  The  song  was  no  doubt  sung  again  at  Williamstown,  and  by  the  same 
method  by  which  a  shrewd  saying  has  been  fastened  in  turn  upon  each  coUege  president  in 
the  country,  it  would  be  easy  to  transmit  the  supposed  authorship  of  this  song  from  the 
Dartmouth  students  who  added  a  stanza  to  the  Williams  students  who  sang  it  on  a  mem- 
orable occasion. 

Harmonized  by  Edward  S.  Cumminge. 


iA  «   i  —  :p—  1  —  *- 

1  —  i  3  —  i 

nJ—  J—  i-=fr 

rr|  —  K  —  i  —  i 

ffpp  8   t  1  —  *  —  rj- 

1.  When   shall    we      three 
2.    Tho'       in      dis   -  tant 

meet        a  -  gain?     When    shall     we      three 
lands      we     sigh,    Parch'd    be  -  neath       the 

meet       a  -  gain? 
burn  -   ing    sky; 

rig):    fi  —  0  0  j»  f— 

r    .• 

—\  P  (V- 

—  y  m  J  

—  f  P  — 

n     1            • 

__j  —  v  —  ji  — 

0  — 

L_J  1  —  «L  —  1 

jg^==jf=j=- 

! 

1       p» 

P—  £  T- 

r*  —  f  —  r  —  1 

Oft       shall  glow  -   in; 
Tho'       the    deep       be 

? 

hope     ei 
neath    us 

F=l=l 

=t 

:  -  pir 
rol 

*=i 

e, 

8, 

i  —  r 
* 

Oft    shall   wear  -  ied 
Friendship  shall       u    - 

r;  r     -r- 

love  re  -  tire, 
nite  our  souls; 

_f  Jl_f  ^ 

ei  —  L  —  j^  —  I  —  i 

1 

'•'  t  r  n 

a  —  p  —  i  —  -i 

644 


m 


i 


Ere 
Oft 


Oft    shall  death 
Still     in       Fan  - 


and 
cy's 


sor  - 
rich 


row   reign, 
do  -  main 


we  three 
shall     we 


shall 
three 


meet 
meet 


a  -  gain. 
a  -   gain. 


When  shall  we  three  meet  again  ? 
When  shall  we  three  meet  again  ? 
Oft  shall  glowing  hope  expire, 
Oft  shall  wearied  love  retire, 
Oft  shall  death  and  sorrow  reign, 
Ere  we  three  shall  meet  again. 

Though  in  distant  lands  we  sigh, 
Parched  beneath  the  burning  sky; 
Though  the  deep  between  us  rolls, 
Friendship  shall  unite  our  souls ; 
Still  in  Fancy's  rich  domain 
Oft  shall  we  three  meet  again. 


When  around  the  youthful  pine 
Moss  shall  creep,  and  ivy  twine  ; 
When  these  burnished  locks  are  gray, 
Thinned  by  many  a  toil-spent  day, 
May  this  long-loved  bower  remain, 
Here  may  we  three  meet  again. 

When  the  dreams  of  life  are  fled, 
When  its  wasted  lamp  is  dead ; 
When  in  cold  oblivion's  shade 
Beauty,  Wealth,  and  power  are  laid, 
Where  immortal  spirits  reign, 
There  shall  we  three  meet  again. 


THE   MESSENGER   BIRD. 

THE  familiar  duet  which  follows  is  still  another  joint  production  of  MRS.  HEMANS  and 
MRS.  ARKWRIGHT, — the  former  being  the  author  of  the  words,  and  the  latter  of  the  music. 
An  American  lady  wrote  an  answer  to  the  song,  in  1827,  which  is  included  in  some  editions 
of  Mrs.  Hemans's  works. 
Espressivo. 

-fr- s 

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BBEgpglH 


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1          ^  It. gl 

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Thou    art   come    from  the  spi  -  rit's         land,    thou  bird !    thou  art  come    from  the  spirit's 

»•"•«  —        ~^*^~- 
> — i ^^•B=-f-— i — 

BEE^E 


:J 


d:: 


* 


3S 


land, 


Thro'     the     dark    pine    grove      let       thy    voice  be    heard,        And 


THE   MESSENGER    BLED. 


645 


6*. 


the  shadowy       band,  tell  of  the   shadowy         band. 


^ 


-I 


t=^t 


We         know 

*. 


±=g=S=f= 


that   the  bow'rs  are  green  and     fair,         In        the 

f t_      _f_ 


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light     of  that       summer  shore, 

r— ^ — f f f- T-^- 

— — iy-^      y • w w  w    ^  •  ~_m 


And      we  know    that     the  friends  we    have 


-0 — , — 0 — i — 0. 


espress. 


E* 


^^ 


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lost  are     there,  They    are       there,    they    are  there,    And      they     weep     no       more. 

f-L_.fi£- _— * 


646 


OUR   FAMILIAR   SONGS. 


Molto  espress. 


V  L",  j  1  1  1  —  3  1  1 

—  \  — 

1  p  K  \  P—  S  — 

But      tell        us,                  but       tell        Ui 

r\       I                                                   ^^                                                                        ^ 

>, 

s 

Tell         us,    thou  bird            of        the 

^  1_               ^  

Lb,  i  |  i    4        i  |  J    - 

1  J 

p 
1  i  ' 

U-^_j_i  j  ,  r=l 
hj            J 

*  , 

^ 

and  they 


sol-    emn    strain,         Can    those  who  have  lov'd  for  -get? 


'•& 
We     call 


/p» 

|                 ^    N_H,-r^  H  K       H,     ^  Uj 

%/                                                                               -—  - 

an  -  swer     not       a  -  gain,          We 

/TN                       ^ 

call,                  and  they    an-  swer    not       a  -  gain;     Oh! 

•^:-fr  —  =  ^_     tj  •*— 

^^ 



say 


do  they  love   us  yet,   do  they  love   us  yet,   do  they  love   us  yet? 


4 


THE  MESSENGER  BIRD. 


647 


*,  ~:    fa*  * 

We       call     them  far      thro'  the    si     -    lent  night, 


And  they  speak    not  from    cave     nor 


We  know,thou  bird  !  that  their   land       is  bright,        But   say,       Oh  I  say      do   they 


m 


love         there        still, 


*  •*  * 

do    they     love         there       still,          do     they  love     there    still? 


Thou  art  come  from  the  spirits'  land,  thou  bird ! 

Thou  art  come  from  the  spirits'  land  : 
Through  the  dark  pine  grove  let  thy  voice  be  heard, 

And  tell  of  the  shadowy  band ! 

We  know  that  the  bowers  are  green  and  fair 
In  the  light  of  that  summer  shore,  [there, 

And  w  i  know  that  the  friends  we  have  lost  are 
They  are  there  —  and  they  weep  no  more! 

[thirst 

And  we  know  they  have  quenched  their  fever's 
From  the  fountain  of  youth  ere  now  ; 

For  there  must  the  stream  in  its  freshness  burst 
Which  none  may  find  below ! 

And  we  know  that  they  will  not  be  lured  to  earth 
From  the  land  of  deathless  flowers, 

By  the  feast,  or  the  dance,  or  the  song  of  mirth, 
Though  their  hearts  were  once  with  ours. 


Though  they  sat  with  us  by  the  night-fire's  blaze. 

And  bent  with  us  the  bow, 
And  heard  the  tales  of  our  fathers'  days, 

Which  are  told  to  others  now  ! 

But  tell  us,  thou  bird  of  the  solemn  strain ! 

Can  those  who  have  loved  forget  ? 
We  call  —  and  they  answer  not  again  — 

Do  they  love  — do  they  love  us  yet? 

Doth  the  warrior  think  of  his  brother  there, 

And  the  father  of  his  child  ? 
And  the  chief  of  those  that  were  wont  to  share 

His  wandering  through  the  wild? 

We  call  them  far  through  the  silent  night, 
And  they  speak  not  from  cave  or  hill ; 

We  know,  thou  bird !  that  their  land  is  bright, 
But  say,  do  they  love  there  still  ? 


643 


OUR  FAMILIAR  SONGS- 

THE  LAND  O'  THE  LEAL. 


THIS  dearly-loved  song  was  made  by  BARONESS  NAIRNE.  It  was  written  for  an  early 
friend  of  hers,  Mrs.  Archibald  Campbell  Colquhoun,  a  beautiful  woman,  and  an  old  love  of 
Walter  Scott's.  It  was  called  forth  by  the  death  of  Mrs.  Colquhoun's  only  child,  and  was 
originally  longer.  Two  stanzas  were  gradually  dropped,  and,  in  later  years,  when  Lady 
Nairne's  whole  life  became  an  expression  of  her  religious  emotions,  she  added  the  stanza : 

"  Sae  dear  that  joy  was  bought,  John, 
Sae  free  the  battle  fought,  John, 
That  sinfu'  man  e'er  brought 

To  the  Land  o'  the  Leal." 

When  Lady  Nairne  was  growing  old,  a  friend  urged  her  to  give  her  some  particulars  of 
her  composition.  Of  this  one  she  wrote :  "  The  '  Land  of  the  Leal'  is  a  happy  rest  for  the 
mind  in  this  dark  pilgrimage.  ...  Oh  yes !  I  was  young  then. 
I  was  present  when  it  was  asserted  that  Burns  composed  it  on  his  death-bed,  and  that  he 
had  it  Jean  instead  of  < John' ;  but  the  parties  could  not  decide  why  it  never  appeared  in 
his  works,  as  his  last  song  should  have  done.  I  never  answered." 

The  authorship  of  her  poems  was  often  discussed  in  her  presence,  and  although  she 
said  once  that  she  "  had  not  Sir  Walter's  art  of  denying,"  she  must  have  had  more  than 
ordinary  control  over  her  countenance  and  speech,  as  well  as  very  faithful  friends  to  keep 
her  secrets;  for  although  her  songs  were  universal  favorites,  the  source  of  many  of  them 
was  unknown  even  to  her  kindred,  until  the  close  of  her  life.  The  year  before  her  death, 
when  she  had  reached  her  seventy-ninth  year,  Lady  Nairne  was  in  Edinburgh,  the  home  of 
her  happy  married  life,  and  also  of  the  friend  for  whom  she  wrote  this  song,  when  one  even- 
ing a  young  kinswoman,  telling  her  unconsciously  that  she  was  about  to  play  what  she  felt 
sure  would  please  her,  stirred  deep  memories  and  hopes  in  the  breast  of  the  aged  gentle- 
woman with  her  own  exquisite  song  about  "  The  Land  o'  the  Leal." 

When  Burns  sent  Thomson  his  song  of  "  Soots  wha  hae  wi'  Wallace  bled,"  asking  that 
it  might  be  set  to  the  air  called  "  Hey,  tuttie,  taittie,"  he  said  that  he  had  shown  the  air  to 
Urbani,  who  was  highly  pleased  with  it,  and  begged  him  to  make  soft  verses  for  it.  Burns 
never  did  so;  but  Lady  Nairne's  words  are  sung  to  that  very  air  which  we  associate 
with  one  of  the  most  stirring  songs  in  existence, — with  only  the  addition  of  an 
opening  note. 


Adagio. 


1.  I'm    wear  -  in'      a  •  wa%  John,  like  snaw-wreaths  in     thaw,  John,     I'm    wear  -   in'     a- 

2.  Our     bon-nie  bairn's    there,  John,  She  was  both  guid  and   fair,    John ;  And,  oh !  we  grudged  her 


THE  LAND    O'    THE   LEAL. 

mf 


649 


neith-er  cauld  uor        care,  John,    The 
joy's      a  -  com  -  in'        fast,  John,    The 


day  is     aye        fair 
joy  that's  aye  to     last 


In    the     laud 
In    the     land 


the     leal, 
o'    the     leal. 


I'm  wearin'  awa',  John, 

Like  snaw-wreaths  in  thaw,  John  ; 

I'm  wearin'  awa' 

To  the  Land  o'  the  Leal. 
There's  nae  sorrow  there,  John, 
There's  neither  cauld  nor  care,  John  ; 
The  day  is  aye  fair 

In  the  Land  o'  the  Leal. 

Our  bonnie  bairn's  there,  John, 
She  was  baith  guid  and  fair,  John, 
And,  oh !  we  grudged  her  sair 

To  the  Land  o'  the  Leal. 
But  sorrow's  sel'  wears  past,  John, 
And  joy's  a-comin'  fast,  John; 
The  joy  that's  aye  to  last 

In  the  Land  o'  the  Leal. 


Sae  dear's  that  joy  was  bought,  John, 
Sae  free  the  battle  fought,  John, 
That  sinfu'  man  e'er  brought 

To  the  Land  o'  the  Leal. 
Oh!  dry  your  glist'nin'  e'e,  John, 
My  saul  langs  to  be  free,  John, 
And  angels  beckon  me 

To  the  Land  o'  the  Leal. 

Oh !  baud  ye  leal  and  true,  John, 
Your  day's  wearin'  through,  John, 
And  I'll  welcome  you 

To  the  Land  o'  the  Leal. 
Now  fare-ye-weel,  my  ain  John, 
This  world's  cares  are  vain,  John, 
We'll  meet,  and  we'll  be  fain 

In  the  Land  o'  the  Leal. 


GOOD   NIGHT,  AND  JOY   BE  WI'  YE  A'. 

TIME  out  of  mind  this  tune  ha*  been  played  at  the  breaking  up  of  social  parties  in  Scot- 
land  and  some  of  her  ablest  song-writers  have  written  words  to  be  sung  to  it,  all  of  them 
founded  upon  an  old  farewell  melody  called  «  Armstrong's  Good-Nigh^ 

ThemostfamiliarversionisthatofSiRALEXANDERBoswELL,Bart.  He  was  the  eldest  son 
of  the  biographer  of  Dr.  Johnson,  and  was  born  in  Scotland,  October  9, 1775,  and  was  educated 


650 


OUR   FAMILIAR   SONGS. 


at  Oxford.  When  he  was  twenty  years  old  his  father  died,  leaving  him  a  large  estate.  With 
literary  taste  and  leisure  he  spent  several  years  in  travel,  and  then  took  up  his  permanent 
abode  in  his  Scottish  home  of  Auchinleck.  He  wrote  both  prose  and  verse,  and  some  of 
his  poems  were  reprinted  in  London.  Sir  Alexander  suggested  the  erection  of  a  monument 
to  Burns  on  the  banks  of  the  Doon,  and  advertised  that  a  meeting  would  be  held  to  discuss 
the  matter.  The  day  arrived,  and  the  hour, — yes,  and  the  man,  just  one.  Sir  Alexander 
took  the  chair,  and  his  friend  became  clerk.  Suitable  resolutions  were  proposed,  seconded, 
and  recorded,  and  the  meeting  broke  up  in  perfect  harmony.  The  resolutions  were  imme- 
diately printed  and  widely  circulated,  and  the  result  was  a  public  subscription  of  two 
thousand  pounds,  and  Sir  Alexander  laid  the  corner-stone  of  the  monument.  He  died 
from  the  effects  of  a  shot  received  in  a  political  duel,  on  the  27th  of  March,  1822. 

"  Johnny  Armstrong's  Good  Night,"  the  famous  old  air  to  which  the  parting  songs  are 
set,  was  called  "Fare-thou-well,  Gilk-nock-hall."  In  "  The  Complaint  of  Scotland,"  the  tune 
is  mentioned  as  one  of  the  dances  to  which  the  "lycht  lopeue"  shepherds  tripped  the 
green,  said  in  the  "Complaint"  to  be  "ane  celest  recreation  to  behold,  and  called  "Thonne 
Ermistrange's  dance."  Gilknock-hall,  in  Liddesdale,  was  the  ancient  seat  of  the  Armstrongs. 
The  Armstrong  to  whom  the  words  of  the  later  songs  refer,  was  named  Thomas,  and  was 
said  to  have  been  executed  in  1601,  for  the  murder  of  Sir  John  Carmichael,  of  Edrom, 
Warden  of  the  Middle  Marches.  The  words  which  he  was  said  himself  to  have  made  and 
sung  were  these: 

"  This  night  is  my  departing  time, 

The  morn's  the  day  I  mun  awa' ; 
There's  no  a  friend  or  fae  of  mine, 
But  wishes  that  I  were  awa. 

"  What  I  hae  done  for  lack  o'  wit 

I  never,  never  can  reca' ; 
I  trust  ye're  a'my  friends  as  yet — 
Gude  night,  and  joy  be  wi'  ye  a'  1" 

Goldsmith  was  so  touched  by  this  song  in  his  youth,  that  nothing  he  heard  sung  >n 
after  years  could  charm  him  like  it.  In  a  letter  to  Hodson  he  says :  "I  go  to  the  opera, 
where  Signer  Columba  pours  out  all  the  mazes  of  melody.  I  sit  and  and  sigh  for  Lishoy's 
fireside,  and  'Johnny  Armstrong's  last  good-night '  from  Peggy  Golden." 

Benjamin  Franklin,  while  travelling  beyond  the  Alleghany  Mountains,  stayed  for  a 
while  with  a  Scottish  family  living  in  a  lonely  place.  One  evening  as  they  sat  in  the  front 
door,  the  lady  of  the  house  sang  "  Sae  happy  as  we  a'  hae  been,"  in  a  way  so  touching  that 
tears  came  to  the  eyes  of  the  philosopher,  and  thirty  years  afterward  he  used  to  speak  of 
the  strong  impression  it  made  upon  him. 

Arranged  by  Edward  S.  Cummings. 
Moderato, 


1.  Good    night,  and  joy      be        wi'  you    a',  Your     harm  -  less  mirth    has  cheer'd  my  heart ;  May 

2.  When       on    yon  muir    our      gal- lant  clan    Frae     boast  -  ing     foes  their     ban-ners  tore,  Who 

3.  The        auld  will  speak,  the  young  maun  hear,  Be       can  -    tie,     but     be       guid  and  leal ;  Your 


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GOOD  NIGHT,  AND  JOY  BE  WI'  YE  A1. 


651 


g^g^^s  .... 

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Sp             =j==±±+_j_  i       v  |  rj~ 

life's    fell   blasts      out     o'er     ye     blaw,      In          sor  - 
show'd  him  -  sel'         a       bet  -  ter     man,      Or         fier  - 
ain      ills     aye       ha'e  heart     to     bear,       A    -    nith  - 

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row      may      ye 
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nev  -  er     part, 
red     clay  -more? 
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My       spir  -   it  lives,  but   strength  is    gone,  The  mount-  ain     fires  now   blaze     in     vain :   Re- 
But     when    in  peace— then    mark   me  there,When  through  the  glen  the     wan-d'rer  came,     I 
So,       ere       I      set,     I'll       see      you  shine,  I'll      see      you     triumph     e'er      I        fa';    My 


3CH                    i                            i            1 

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_____   _____        —  -  —  — 

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._a  —  d  e  *  X  J  J_  X 

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^-^S  ,  1—  ^  r 
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mem  -  her,  sons,     the       deeds   I've  done,   And 
gave   him     o'        our        hard  -   y    fare,       I 
part  -  ing  breath  shall       boast  you  mine,  Good 

-tt=i^  -  J   J   j  J 

in      your  deeds   I'll         live       a  -  gain, 
gave    him    here       a          wel-  come  hame. 
night,   and     joy       be           wi'     you      a'. 

J    i    j    j   1  *i  •         II 

_J  L^_ 

-*  e  J  ^  H 

^ 

Good  night,  and  joy  be  wi'  ye  a', 

Your  harmless  mirth  has  cheer'd  my  heart; 
May  life's  fell  blasts  out  o'er  ye  blaw, 

In  sorrow  may  ye  never  part. 
My  spirit  lives,  but  strength  is  gone, 

The  mountain  fires  now  blaze  in  vain; 
Remember,  sons,  the  deeds  I've  done, 

And  in  your  deeds  I'll  live  again. 


662  OUR   FAMILIAR   SONGS. 

When  on  yon  muir  our  gallant  clan 

Frae  boasting  foes  their  banners  tore, 
Who  showed  himsel'  a  better  man. 

Or  fiercer  waved  the  red  claymore? 
But  when  in  peace  —  then  mark  me  there, 

When  through  the  glen  the  wanderer  came, 
I  gave  him  o'  our  hardy  fare, 

I  gave  him  here  a  welcome  hame. 

The  auld  will  speak,  the  young  maun  hear, 

Be  cantie,  but  be  guid  and  leal ; 
Your  ain  ills  aye  ha'e  heart  to  bear, 

Anither's  aye  ha'e  heart  to  feel. 
So,  ere  I  set,  I'll  see  you  shine, 

I'll  see  you  triumph  e'er  I  fa'; 
My  parting  breath  shall  boast  you  mine, 

Good  night,  and  joy  be  wi'  ye  a'. 

Burns,  in  a  letter  written  at  the  happiest  period  of  his  life,  says:  "  Ballad-making  is 
now  as  completely  my  hobby  as  ever  fortification  was  Uncle  Toby's ;  so  I'll  e'en  canter 
away  till  I  come  to  the  limit  of  my  race  (God  grant  that  I  may  take  the  right  side  of  the 
winning-post),  and  then,  cheerfully  looking  back  on  the  honest  folks  with  whom  I  have  been 
happy,  I  shall  say  or  sing  '  Sae  merry  as  we  a'  ha'e  been,"  and  raising  my  last  looks  to  the 
whole  of  the  human  race,  the  last  words  of  the  voice  of  Colia  shall  be  '  Good  night,  and 
joy  be  wi'  ye  a'."' 

This  is  the  closing  stanza  of  Lady  Nairne's  version  of  the  song: 

My  harp,  fareweel  I  thy  strains  are  past, 

Of  gleefu'  mirth,  and  heartfelt  wae ; 
The  voice  of  song  maun  cease  at  last, 

And  minstrelsy  itsel'  decay. 
But,  oh  !  where  sorrow  canna  win, 

Nor  parting  tears  are  shed  ava', 
May  we  meet  neighbor,  kith  and  kin, 

And  joy  for  aye  be  wi'  us  a' ! 


INDEX, 


Names  of  authors  and  composers,  in  SMALL  CAPITALS  ;  titles  of  the  songs,  in  ttaiict. 


Adafr,  Sir  Robert,  sketch  of,  356. 

ADAM,  JEAN,  sketch  of  and  song  by,  394. 

Adams  and  Liberty,  589. 

Aefond  kiss,  317. 

A  frog  he  would  a  wooing  go,  434. 

After  the  Battle,  565. 

Afton  Water,  322. 

Aileen  Aroon,  air  of,  227. 

AINSLIE,  HEW,  skt- tch  of  and  song  by,  44. 

Allan  Water,  300. 

ALLEN,  ELIZABETH  AKERS,  sketch  of  and  song  by, 

71. 

ALLINGHAM,  WILLIAM,  sketch  of  and  song  by,  423. 
All  quiet  along  the  Potomac,  563. 
Airs  Well!  637 

"  Alton  Locke,"  quotation  from,  187. 
A  man's  a  man,  for  a'  that,  603. 
Anacreon  in  Heaven,  air  of,  589. 
And  ye  shall  walk  in  silk  attire,  351. 
Angel's  Whisper,  Ihe.  392. 
Annie  Laurie,  364. 
Appleton,   Mrs.  W.    Stuart,  her   connection    with 

"  The  Star-Spangled  Banner,"  593. 
Araby's  Daughter,  307. 
Are  there  Tidings  ?  184. 
Arethusa,  The,  167. 
Argyle,  John,  Duke  of,  513. 
ARK  WRIGHT,  Mrs.,  songs  by,  191,  340,  533, 628,  644. 

(See  also  BROWNE,  Miss.) 
Armistead,  George,  his  connection  with  the  "  Star- 

Spangled  Banner,"  592. 
ARNE,  Dr.  THOMAS,  sketch  of,  576  ;  songs  by,  426, 

576. 

Arrow  and  the  Song,  The,  609. 
ARNOLD.  SAMUEL,  sketch  of  and  song  by,  589. 
ARNOLD,  S.  J.,  sketch  of  and  song  by,  553. 
As  d>>wn  in,  the  sunless  retreats,  639 
As  I  was  gwine  down  Shin-bone  Alley,  air  of,  274. 
ATTWOOD,  THOMAS,  song  by,  527. 
Auld  Lang  Syne,  7. 
Auld  Robin  Qray,  291  ;  sequel  to,  295. 

BAILLIE,  JOANNA,  sketch  of  and  song  by,  60. 
BALFE,  MICHAEL  WILLIAM,  sketch  of,  609  ;  songs 

by,  35,  609. 

Ball,  Hon.  Mr.,  claims  "  Rock  me  to  Sleep,"  71. 
BALLANTTNE,  JAMES,  sketch  of  and  song  by,  47. 


Barbara  Allan,  327. 

BAHKER,  GEORGE  A.,  sketch  of  and  song  by,  115. 

BARKER,  NATHAN,  arranges  "  Graves  of  a  House. 

hold,"  74. 

BARKER,  THEODORE  T.,  song  by,  423. 
BARNARD,  Lady  Anne,  sketch  of  and  song  by,  291. 
BARNETT,  JOHN,  sketch  of  and  song  by,  560. 
Barney  Buntline,  114. 
Barrington,  Sir  Jonah,  quoted,  238. 
Battle  of  the  Baltic,  574. 
Battle  Prayer,  The,  535. 
BAYLY,  THOMAS  HAYNES,  sketch  of,  3  ;  anecdote  ot, 

221  ;  songs  by,  3,  88,  95,  98, 190,  221,  276,  28\, 

299,  354,  504,  521. 
Bay  of  Biscay,  The,  175. 
Bay  of  Dublin,  79. 
Beaufort,  Miss,  quoted,  244 
BEERS,  ETHEL  LYNN,  sketch  of  and  song  by,  563. 
Beggqr  Girl,  The,  614. 
Begone  !  Dull  Care,  454. 
Bells  of  St.  Petersburg,  the  air  of,  223. 
Ben  Bolt,  9. 

BENJAMIN,  PARK,  sketch  of  and  song  by,  632. 
Bennet,  Emerson,  his  connection  with  "  Rain  on  the 

Roof,"  56. 

BENNET,  HENRY,  song  by,  441. 
Best  Scotch  song,  Burns's  opinion  as  to  the,  493. 
Better  Land,  The,  628. 
Bingen  on  the  Rhine,  537. 
BirksofAberfeldy,  The,  384. 
Birks  of  Abergeldy,  The,  old  song  of,  384. 
Bishop,  Madame  Anna,  184. 
BISHOP,  Sir  HENRY  ROWLEY,  sketch  of,  184  ;  eongit 

by,  98. 184,  354,  444,  499,  505. 
Black,  John,  quoted,  543,  604. 
Black-eyed  Susan,  125. 
BLAMIUE,  SUSANNA,  sketch  of,  304  ;  songs  by,  304. 

320,  351. 

BLEWITT,  JONATHAN,  sketch  of  and  song  by,  447. 
BLOCKLEY,  JOHN,  sketch  of,  13  ;  songs  by,  13,  236. 
Blue  bells  of  Scotland,  The,  501. 
Blue  bonnets  over  the  border,  518. 
Blue  eyed  Mary,  275. 
Blue  Juniata,  Ihe.  279. 
Boatie  rows,  The,  59. 
Hob  and  Joan,  air  of,  457. 
Bonnie  Doon,  343. 


654 


INDEX. 


Bonnie  Dundee,  497  ;  air  of,  324. 

BOOTT,  FRANCIS,  song  by,  187. 

BOSWELL,  Sir  ALEXANDER,  sketch  of  and  song  by, 
649 

BOUCICAULT,  DION,  sketch  of,  89  ;  Bongs  by,  89, 
488. 

Bounding  billoics,  cease  your  motion,  345. 

Bowld  Sojer  Boy,  The,  446.. 

Bradford,  Samuel,  312. 

Braes  o'  Balquhidder,  The,  387. 

Braes  o'  Gleniffer,  The,  324. 

BRAHAM,  JOHN,  sketch  of,  553  ;  anecdote  of,  637  ; 
songs  by,  553,  637. 

Brave  old  oak,  The,  209. 

Break,  break,  break,  37. 

Bridal  of  AndaUa,  The,  340. 

Brighton  Camp,  song  of,  503. 

Bring  flowers,  206. 

Brook,  The,  199. 

Brookside,  The,  363. 

Brose  and  Butter,  air  of,  417. 

BROWN,  FRANCIS  H. ,  sketch  of  and  song  by,  151. 

BROWNE,  Miss,  song  by,  103.  (See  also  ARKWRIGHT.) 

BROWN  ELL,  HENRY  HOWARD,  song  by,  478. 

BUOWNING,  ISABELLA,  her  opinion  of  W.  R.  Demp- 
ster, 37  ;  assists  him,  620. 

BRUCE,  JOHN,  song  by,  420. 

BRUCE,  SILAS,  song  by,  613. 

BUCKLEY,  R.  BISHOP,  sketch  of  and  song  by,  429. 

BULWER,  EDWARD,  Lord  LYTTON,  sketch  of  and 
song  by,  258. 

BUNN,  ALFRED,  sketch  of  and  song  by,  84 

Bunting,  his  "  Ancient  Music  of  Ireland"  quoted, 
83. 

Burial  of  Sir  John  Moore,  2he,  560. 

BURNS,  ROBERT,  sketch  of,  7;  songs  by,  8,  268, 317, 
321,  322,  343,  359,  368,  384,  386,  390,  406,  413, 
420,  516,  519,  603. 

Bush  aboon  Traquair,  The,  326. 

Buy  a  Broom,  444. 

BYRON,  Lord,  sketch  of  and  song  by,  269 ;  his  opin- 
ion of  Lewis,  300. 

Caledonian  Hunt's  Delight,  The,  air  of,  343. 
CALLCOTT,  JOHN  WALL,  sketch  of  and  song  by, 

573. 

Caller  Herrin',  606. 
Campbell,  Mary,  monument  to,  359. 
CAMPBELL,  MARY  MAXWELL,  sketch  of  and  song 

by,  510. 
CAMPBELL,  THOMAS,  sketch  of,  331 ;  anecdote  of, 

573 ;  songs  by,  91,  331,  527,  543,  573,  574. 
Campbells  are  Comin',  The,  513. 
Canadian  Boat  Song,  204. 
Captain  Kidd,  171. 
Captive  Knight,  Tlie,  533. 
CAREY  HENRY,  sketch  of  and  song  by,  369.     (See 

alto  God  Save  the  King.) 


CAROLAN,  TURLOUGH,  sketch  of,  313;  song  by,  167. 
CARPENTER,  JOSEPH  EDWARDS,  sketch  of  and  song 

by,  146. 

Carrier  Bird,  The,  613. 
Carrier  Dove,  The,  100. 
Carrier  Pigeon,  The,  278. 
CARTER,  THOMAS,  sketch  of  and  song  by,  272- 
Castles  in  the  Air,  47. 
Catalani,  Madame,  anecdote  of,  638. 
Charlie  is  my  Darling,  486. 
Cheer,  Boys,  Cheer!  105. 
CHENIE,  JOHN,  song  by,  381. 
CHERRY  ANDREW,  sketch  of  and  song  by,  175. 
Choiseul,  Duke  de,  194. 
CHORLEY,  HENRY  F.,  sketch  of,  209  ;  quoted,  109  ; 

his  opinion  of  Horn,  301  ;  song  by,  209. 
Christy,  E.  P.,  puts  his  name  on  Foster's  song,  69. 
CLARK,  JAMES  G.,  sketch  of,  297  ;  songs  by,  56, 

297. 
Clark,  Richard,  his  discussion   of  "  God  Save  the 

King,"  578. 
COCKBURN,  ALISON  RUTHERFORD,   sketch  of  and 

song  by,  601. 
COLMAN,   GEORGE,    the    younger,    sketch  of  and 

song  by,  330. 

Come,  Haste  to  the  Wedding,  426. 
Come,  landlord,  fill  the  flowing  bowl,  455. 
Come,  play  me  that  simple  air,  237. 
Comin'  through  the  Rye,  403. 
Conallon,  Thomas,  his  connection  with,  "  Lochaber 

no  More,"  83. 
Connel  and  Flora,  311. 
COOK,  ELIZA,  sketch  of  and  song  by,  20  ;  her  poem 

on  Hood,  12. 

COOKE,  THOMAS,  sketch  of  and  song  by,  252. 
Copyright  Trial,  A,  435. 
Cork  Leg,  The,  447. 
Country  Lass,  The,  air  of,  370. 
County  Guy,  266  ;  air  of,  460. 
COVERT,  BERNARD,  sketch  of,  159  ;  songs  by,  159, 

552. 

CRAWFORD,  Mrs.,  song  by,  333. 
CRAWFORD,  ROBERT,  sketch  of,  253 ;    songs  by, 

253,  326. 
CROUCH,  F.  W.  NICHOLLS,  sketch  of  and  song  by, 

333. 

Cruiskin  Lawn,  air  of,  399. 
Cumming,  the  Misses,  their  concerts,  488. 
CUNNINGHAM,  ALLAN,  sketch  of  and  song  by,  137. 
Curran,  Sarah,  Irving's  story  of,  357. 
CUSSANS,  JACK,  song  by,  444 

DANBY,  GERTRUDE,  song  by,  318. 

Dandy,  oh !  The,  air  of,  250. 

Dashing  Wliite  Sergeant,  The,  505. 

DAVIS,  THOMAS  OSBORNE,  sketch  of  and  song  by, 

366. 
DAVY,  JOHN,  sketch  of,  175  ;  songs  by,  114,  175. 


INDEX. 


655 


Days  of  Absence,  226. 

DAYTON,  J.,  song  by,  563. 

Death  of  Nelson,  The,  553. 

Death  of  Warren,  The,  544. 

DEMPSTER,  WILLIAM  R.,  sketch  of,  620  ;  songs  by 

37,  85,  240,  314,  544,  620. 
DIBDIN,  CHARLES,  sketch  of,    157 ;  epitaph,  160  ; 

anecdote  of,  178  ;  songs  by,  157, 160, 162, 163, 178* 

465. 
DIBDIN,  THOMAS,  sketch  of,  571 ;   songs  by    571 

637. 

DICKENS,  CHARLES,  sketch  of  and  song  by,  210. 
DINSMOOR,  ROBERT,  claims  "The  Braes  o'  Glenif- 

fer,"  324. 
Dixie,  580. 
DONIZETTI,  his  connection  with  "Home,  sweet 

home,"  42. 

Do  they  miss  me  at  home  ?  68. 
DOUGLAS,  Mr.,  song  by,  365. 
Down  the  burn,  253. 
Drink  to  me  only  with  thine  eyes,  460. 
DUPFERIN,  Lady,  sketch  of,  85  ;  songs  by,  79,  85. 
Duffet,  Thomas,  his  book  of  songs,  82. 
Duganne,   Augustine  J.   H.,  poem  by,  claimed  by 

Crouch,  333. 
*  Duncan  Gray,  413. 

DUNLOP,  JOHN,  sketch  of  and  song  by,  469. 
Dunois  the  brave,  509. 
Durany.   Ferdinand,  his   connection    with    "The 

Star-Spangied  Banner,"  592. 
D'URFEY,  THOMAS,  song  by,  410. 

Eileen  Aroon,  241. 

ELLIOT,  JEAN,  sketch  of  and  song  by,  569. 

ENGLISH,  THOMAS  DUNN,  sketch  of  and  song  by,  9. 

Erin  is  my  home,  88. 

Erin,  the  tear,  227. 

Erskine,  A  ,  quoted,  413. 

Esling,  Mrs.,  305. 

Evening  Song  to  the  Virgin,  619. 

EWEN,  JOHN,  sketch  of  and  song  by,  59. 

Exile  of  Erin,  The,  91. 

Farewell!  but  whenever  you  welcome  the  hour,  461. 

Farragut,  Mrs. ,  352. 

FERKIER,  Miss,  stanzas  by,  417. 

Fields,  James  T.,  his  anecdote  of  Tennyson,  37. 

Pitt  the  bumper  fair,  457. 

FINCH,  FRANCIS  M.,  sketch  of  and  song  by,  453. 

Fine  old  English  gentleman,  The,  435. 

FITZGERALD,  Lady  EDWARD,  song  by,  14. 

Fitz- Herbert,  Mrs.,  her  connection  with  "  The  Lass 

of  Richmond  Hill,"  246. 
Flower  of  Strathearn,  The,  484. 
Flowers  of  the  Forest  (Mrs.  Cockburn's),  601. 
Flowers  of  (he  Forest  (Miss  Elliot's),  569. 
Fly  not  yet,  260. 
FONTANE,  LAMAR,  his  claim  to  "  All  quiet  along 

the  Potomac,"  563. 


For  the  sake  o'  somebody,  268. 

FOSTER,  STEPHEN  COLLINS,  sketch  of,  4  ;  songs  by. 

5,  64,  69,  286,  287. 
Four -leaved  Shamrock,  The,  244. 
Francis,   Dr.,   his  remembrance  of  John  Howard 

Payne,  41. 
Franklin,  Benjamin,  anecdote  of,  650. 

Gaily  the  troubadour,  521. 

Gallant  troubadour,  The,  508. 

GAY,  JOHN,  sketch  of,  125  ;   songs  by,  125,  128  j 
criticisms  on,  129. 

General  Leslie's  March,  the  old  song  of,  518. 

GILMAN,  CAROLINE,  sketch  of  and  song  by,  151. 

Ginevra,  the  story  of,  299. 

Giil  I  left  behind  me,  The,  503. 

GLOVEB,  CHARLES  W.,  sketch  of  and  song  by,  838. 

GLOVER,  STEPHEN,  sketch  of  and  song  by,  146. 

God  Save  the  King,  578. 

Go,  forget  me  !  243. 

Goldsmith,  Oliver,  quoted,  328,  650. 

Good-night,  and  joy  be  wi'  ye  a'  !  649. 

Good-morrow,  fair  mistress  1  air  of,  312. 

GORRIN,  CIPRIANO,  sketch  of  and  song  by,  624. 

Gow,  Nathaniel,  his  connection  with  "  Caller  Her- 
rin',"  606. 

Gow,  NEIL,  songs  by,  421,  606. 

Grammachree,  the  air  of,  228,  249,  568. 

GRANNIS,  S.  M.,  song  by,  68. 

GRANT,  Mrs.,  sketch  of  and  song  by,  421. 

GRANT,  Mrs.,  of  Laggan,  sketch  of  and  song  by, 
501. 

Grave  of  Bonaparte,  The,  558. 

Graves  of  a  household,  The,  74. 

Greeley,  Horace,  quoted,  328. 

Green  grow  the  rashes,  0, 406. 

Greenville,  air  of,  226. 

Greiner,  John,  song  erroneously  attributed  to,  475. 

Grey,  Capt.  Charles,  486. 

GRIFFIN,  GERALD,  sketch  of  and  song  by,  241. 

Groves  of  Blarney,  The,  431. 

Guernsey,  Alfred  H.,  quoted,  564. 

GUERNSEY,  WELLINGTON,  pong  by,  284. 

Had  I  a  heart  for  falsehood  framed,  249. 

Hail,  Columbia!  586. 

Hail  to  tlw  chief!  499. 

HALL,  CHARLES,  song  by,  476. 

HAMILTON,  ELIZABETH,  sketch  of  and  song  by,  46. 

HANDEL,  GEORG  FRIEDRICH,  song  by,  129. 

Harris,  Chandler,  quoted,  563. 

Hatton,  Joseph  L.,  his  reminiscences  of  Mark 
Lemon,  16. 

Hawthorne,  Nathaniel,  his  description  of  Ailing- 
ham,  423. 

HAY,  DOMINICK  M.  H.,  writes  an  air  for  "  Ben 
Bolt,"  9. 

HEATH,  LYMAN,  sketch  of  and  song  by,  558. 

Heaving  of  the  Lead,  The,  173. 


C56 


INDEX. 


HEBER,  REGINALD,  sketch  of,  99  ;  songs  by,  99, 

512. 

HEFFERNAN,  I.,  song  by,  638. 
HEMANS,  FELICIA,  sketch   of,  215;    songs  by,  74, 

103,  191,  206,  215,  533,  619,  628,  644. 
Herd,  David,  his  collection  of  melodies,  380. 
Here  awa',  there  awa',  air  of,  368. 
Here's  a  health  to  ane  Ilo'e  dear,  321. 
HEWER,  W.,  song  probably  by,  435. 
HEWIT,  RICHARD,  sketch  of  and  song  by,  264. 
HEWITT,  D.  C.,  sketch  of  and  song  by,  543. 
Hey,  tuttie  taittie,  air  of,  516. 
Highland  Mary,  359. 

Highland  Watch's  Farewell,  The,  air  of,  268. 
HIMMEL,  FRIEDRICH    HEINRICH,   sketch  of   and 

song  by,  535. 

HIKE,  JAMES,  song  by,  363. 
HOARE,  PRINCE,  sketch  of  and  song  by,  167. 
HOFFMAN,  CHARLES  FENNO,  sketch  of  and  song 

by,  451. 

Holmes,  Oliver  Wendell,  quoted,  103,  568,  593,  595, 
604. 

HOGG,  JAMES,  sketch  of  and  song  by,  255. 

Home,  sweet  home,  41. 

HOOD,  THOMAS,  sketch  of  and  song  by,  12. 

HOOK,  JAMES,  sketch  of,  410  ;  songs  by,  246,  410. 

Hook,  Theodore,  writes  Kelly's  "  Reminiscences," 
52. 

HOPKINSON,  JOSEPH,  sketch  of  and  song  by,  586. 

HORN,  CHARLES  EDWARD,  sketch  of,  301 ;  songs 
by,  274,  301. 

HORSLEY,  WILLIAM,  sketch  of  and  song  attributed 
to,  642. 

HORTENSE,  QUEEN,  sketch  of  and  song  by,  509. 

Hosmer,  William  H.  C.,  his  lines  on  Payne,  42. 

House  of  Glanis,  The,  air  of,  265. 

HOWITT,  MARY,  sketch  of  and  song  by,  599. 

How  stands  the  glass  around?  456. 

HUGHES,  Mrs.,  215.    (See  ARKWRIGHT.) 

Huish  the  cat  from  under  the  table,  air  of,  259. 

HULLAH,  JOHN,  sketch  of  and  song  by,  181. 

HUNTER,  MRS.  JOHN,  sketch  of  and  song  by,  285. 

HUTCHINSON,  J.  J.,  song  by,  630. 

Hutchinson,  Joshua,  524,  525. 

HUTCHINSON,  JUDSON,  sketch  of  and  song  by,  537. 

I  am  the  Duke  of  Norfolk,  air  of,  399. 

fd  be  a  butterfly,  221. 

Tdbea  parody,  223. 

1  feed  a  lad  at  Michaelmas,  air  of,  8. 

If  thou  wert  by  my  side,  99. 

TU  hang  my  harp  on  a  willow- tree,  284. 

I'm  saddest  when  I  sing,  98, 

Incledon,  anecdotes  of,  121,  176. 

Indian's  death-song,  The,  285. 

1  ne'er  lo'ed  a  laddie  but  ane,  381. 

IngU  Side,  The,  44. 

In  January  last,  air  of,  371. 


Inquiry,  The,  624. 

/  remember,  14. 

1  remember,  I  remember,  12. 

Irish  tune,  The,  82. 

Irving,  Washington,  quoted,  310,  357. 

I  see  them  on  their  winding  vay,  512. 

Isle  of  beauty,  fare  thee  well,  95. 

Ivy  Green,  The,  210. 

Jamie's  on  tJie  stormy  sea,  159. 

Janson,  Miss,  the  lass  of  Richmond  Hill,  246. 

Jeanie  Morrison,  314. 

Jeannette  and  Jeannol,  338. 

JEFFERYS,   CHARLES,   sketch  of,   338 ;  songs  by, 

29,  338,  389. 

Jessie,  the  Flower  o'  Dumblane,  372. 
Jock  o'  Hazeldean,  371. 
Jock  o'  Hazelgreen,  old  song  of,  371. 
John  Anderson,  my  jo,  399. 
John  Brown's  Body,  476. 
Johnny  Armstrong's  good  night,  air  of,  650. 
Johnny  Schmoker,  probable  origin  of,  439. 
John  O'Reilly  the  active,  air  of,  467. 
JOHNS,  Capt.,  song  by,  115. 
JOHNSON,  DANIEL,  sketch  of  and  song  by,  100. 
Jolly  Fellow,  The,  air  of,  455. 
Jolly  Young  Waterman,  TJie,  157. 
Jones,  Penrose,  his  connection  with  "  Rain  on  the 

Roof,"  56. 

JONSON,  BEN,  songs  by,  460,  578. 
JORDAN,  Mrs.,  song  by,  501. 

Kate  Kearney,  418. 

Kathleen  Mavourneen,  333. 

Kean,  Edmund,  175. 

KELLY,  MICHAEL,  sketch  of  and  song  by,  52. 

Kennedy,  Miss,  heroine  of  Bonnie  Doon,  344. 

KEPPEL,  CAROLINE,  sketch  of  and  song  by,  355. 

KEY,  FRANCIS  SCOTT,  sketch  of  and  song  by,  592. 

KIALLMARK,  E.,  sketch  of  and  song  by,  307, 

Kidd,  William,  sketch  of,  171. 

Kind  Robin  lo'es  me,  380. 

King  Charles,  122. 

King  James's  march  into  Ireland,  the  air  of,  82. 

KING,  M.  P.,  sketch  of  and  song  by,  122. 

King,  W.  A.,  122. 

KINGSLEY,  CHARLES,  sketch  of,  181 ;  songs  by  181, 

187. 

KlNNEY,  COATES,  sketch  of  and  song  by,  56. 
KITTREDGE,  WALTER,  sketch  of  and  song  by,  524. 
Kitty  Neil,  259. 

KNEASS,  NELSON,  sketch  of  and  song  by,  9. 
KNIGHT,  JOSEPH  PHILIP,  sketch  of,  194;  songs  by, 

194,  281. 

Knipp,  Mrs.,  her  singing,  328. 
K6RNER,  KARL  THEODORE,  sketch  of  and  song  by, 

535. 

Laird  o'  Cockpen,  The,  417. 


INDEX. 


Lament  of  the   Captive.     (See  My  life  is  like  tJie 

summer  rose.) 

Lament  of  the  Irish  Emigrant,  85. 
LANDER,  JOHN,  stanza  by,  432. 
Land  o'  the  Leal,  The,  648. 
Lass  o'  Gowrie,  The,  248. 
Lass  of  Richmond  Hill,  The,  246. 
Lass  o'  Patie's  Mil,  The,  385. 
Lass  that  loves  a  sailor,  The,  160. 
Last  Hose  of  Summer,  TJie,  219. 
Lea  Rig,  The,  386. 

LEE,  ALEXANDER,  sketch  of  and  song  by,  504. 
LEEVES,  WILLIAM,  song  by,  292. 
LEMON,  MARK,  sketch  of  and  song  by,  16;  anec- 
dote of,  154. 

Lennie,  Wm.,  his  reminiscences  of  Motherwell,  314. 
Let  Erin  Remember,  224. 
LEVERIDGE,  RICHARD,  sketch  of,  442  ;  songs  by  125, 

442. 

Le wars,  Jessie,  321. 
Lewie  Gordon,  air  of,  517. 
LEWIS,  MATTHEW  GREGORY,  sketch  of  and  song 

by,  300. 

Lieber  Avfgustine,  air  of,  444. 
Life  on  the  Ocean  Wave,  A,  130. 
Light  of  otlier  days,  The,  34. 
LINDSAY,  Miss,  song  by,  615. 
Linley,  Miss,  marries  Sheridan,  249. 
Little  Pigs,  air  of,  474. 
Lochaber  no  more,  82. 
Loch  Erroch  Side,  air  of,  248. 
Lochiel,  510. 
LOCKHAIIT,  JOHN  GIBSON,  sketch  of  and  song  by, 

340. 
LODER,  EDWARD  J.,  sketch  of,  276  ;  songs  by,  209, 

276. 

Long  Ago,  The,  3. 
LONGFELLOW,  HENRY  W.,  sketch  of,  620 ;  songs 

by,  230,  609,  620. 
Lord  Uttin's  Daughter,  331. 
Lovely  Mary  Donnelly,  423. 
Love  not,  236. 
LOVER,  SAMUEL,  sketch  of,  446  ;  songs  by,  244,  ?80, 

313,  392,  404,  407,  412,  415,  446. 
Love's  Ritornella,  251. 
Love's  Young  Dream,  238. 
Low-backed  car,  The,  404. 
LOWE,  JOHN,  sketch  of  and  song  by,  309. 

Macbeth,  the  music  for,  443. 

McCann,  Anthony,  inspires  Campbell's  song,  91. 

MACKAY,  CHARLES,  sketch  of,    202  ;  his  "  Forty 

Years'  Recollect  ions"  quoted,  486  ;  songs  by,  105, 

202,  604,  624. 

McNALLY,  LEONARD,  sketch  of  and  song  by,  246. 
MACNEILL,  HECTOR,  sketch  of,  376  ;  songs  by,  376, 

381. 
Macri,  Theresa,  269. 


MAHONY,  FRANCIS,  stanza  by,  432. 

Maid  of  Athens,  269. 

MAIGH,  DAVID,  song  by,  253. 

MALLET,  DAVID,  sketch  of  and  song  by,  576. 

March  of  the  Cameron  Men,  The,  510. 

Marion  Moore,  297. 

Mary,  do  you  fancy  me  ?  air  of,  392. 

Maryland,  My  Maryland,  478. 

Mary  of  Ar gyle,  382. 

Mary  of  the  Wild  Moor,  303. 

Mary's  Dream,  309. 

Massa's  in  the  cold,  cold  ground,  287. 

Mazzara,  Count,  patronizes  Balfe,  609. 

MAZZINGHI,  Count  JOSEPH,  sketch  of  and  song  by, 

541. 

Medwin,  Thomas,  quoted,  560. 
Meeting,  The,  463. 
Meeting  of  the  Waters,  Tfie,  267. 
Meet  me  by  Moonlight,  374. 
Messenger  Bird,  The,  644. 

MICKLE,  WILLIAM  JULIUS,  song  claimed  for,  394. 
Mill,  Mill  0,  The,  air  of,  519. 
Miller,  James,  his  connection  with  "  Bonnie  Doon," 

343. 
MILLIKIN,  RICHARD  ALFRED,  sketch  of  and  song 

by,  431. 
MILNES,  RICHARD  MONCKTON,  sketch  of  and  song- 

by,  363. 

Minstrel  Boy,  The,  523. 
Minstrel's  lit  turn,  The,  522. 
Minute  Gun  at  Sea,  The,  122. 
Mistletoe  Bough,  The,  299. 

Mitford,  Mary  Russell,  her  search  for  Bonnie  Dun- 
dee, 497. 
Moir,   David    M.,   his  opinion    of    Mrs.   Norton's 

poetry,  31 ;  quoted,  326. 
Moll  Roe  in  the  morning,  air  of,  459. 
Moll  Roone,  air  of,  461. 
Mutty  Carew,  407. 
MOORE,  THOMAS,  sketch  of,  32 ;  anecdotes  of,  238. 

467  ;   opinion  of  Sheridan's  song,  249 ;  opinion 

of  Morris,  465  ;    songs  by,  32,  52,  204,  21!),  O'JU. 

224,  227,  237,  238.  250,  260,  267,  307,  357,  457, 

459,  461,  463,  467,  515,  523,  565,  567,  568,  613V 

629. 

MORAN,  P.  K.,  song  by,  278. 
Moreen,  The,  air  of,  523. 
MORGAN,  LADY,  sketch  of  and  song  by,  418. 
MORUIS,  CHARLES,  sketch  of  and  song  by,  464. 
MORRIS,  GEORGE  P.,  sketch  of,  2"> ;  Willis's  char- 

acterization  of,  622  ;  songs  by.  25,  274,  305,  622. 
MOSCHELES,  IGNATZ,  sketch  of  and  song  by,  88. 
MOTHERWELL,  WILLIAM,  sketch  of  and  song  by_ 

314. 
MOZART,  WOLFGANG,  sketch  of,  248 ,   songs  by» 

243,  266,  460. 

MUELLER,  J.  MAX,  sketch  of  and  song  by,  7','. 
My  din  fireside,  46. 


658  INDEX. 


My  Country,  'tis  of  thee,  595. 

My  dearie,  an'  thou  dee,  air  of,  304. 

My  heart's  in  the  Highlands,  97. 

My  life  is  like  the  summer  roue,  233. 

My  lodging  is  on  the  cold  ground,  air  of,  381. 

My  Mother's  Bible,  622. 

My  Old  Kentucky  Home,  64 

My  wife's  a  winsome  wee  thing,  390. 

Nae  luck  aboot  the  house,  394. 

NAIKNE,  LADY,  sketch  of,  484  ;  songs  by,  248,  417, 

484,  486,  606,  648. 

Napoleon  I.,  his  opinion  of  English  music,  343. 
NATHAN,  ISAAC,  sketch  of  and  song  by,  269. 
Near  the  lake,  274. 
NELSON,   SIDNEY,  sketch  of,  190  ;    songs  by,  99, 

190,  379,  382,  389. 
NEUKOMM,  SIGISMOND,  sketch  of,  109 ;  songs  by, 

109,  139. 

New  Highland  Lad,  The,  song  of,  501. 
NICOLO,  song  by,  29. 
Nid,  niil,  noddin',  song  of,  393. 
Noble  Sir  Arthur,  air  of,  420. 
NOEL,  THOMAS,  sketch  of  and  song  by,  630. 
NORTON,  CAROLINE,  sketch  of,  30 ;  songs  by,  31, 

102,  236,  537. 

Oak  and  the  ash,  The,  80. 

O  boys,  carry  me  'long,  286. 

O'Carrol,  his  singing,  330. 

O'Connor,  William  D.,  defends  Mrs.  Allen's  title 

to  "  Rock  me  to  sleep,"  71. 
Oft  in  the  stilly  night,  32. 
Oh,  no,  we  never  mention  her,  354. 
Oh,  take  her,  but  be  faithful  still,  389. 
Oh,  think  not  my  spirits,  467. 
Old  and  young  courtier,  The,  ballad  of,  435. 
Old  arm-chair,  The,  20. 
Old  Dog  Tray,  4. 
Old  Dutch  Clock.  The,  141. 
Old  Folks  at  Home,  69. 
Old  Head  of  Dennis,  The,  air  of,  267. 
Old  King  Cole,  439. 
Old  Oaken  Bucket,  The,  18. 
Old  Sexton,  The,  632. 
Old  Woman,  Tlie.  the  air  of,  233. 
O  Nannie,  wilt  thou  gang id'  me?  272. 
One  bumper  at  parting,  459. 
O'Neil,  A.,  Irish  harper,  503. 
O,  say  not  tha'.  my  heart  is  cold,  228. 
Osgood,  Frances  S.,  her  description  of  Eliza  Cook, 

20. 

Oswald,  James,  his  collection  of  tunes,  265. 
0,  swiftly  glides  the  bonnie  boat,  60. 
O  Tannenbaum,  air  of,  478. 
0  whisle,  and  I'll  come  to  you,  my  lad,  420. 

Paddy  Whack,  air  of,  567. 


PAINE,  ROBERT  TIIEAT,  Jr.,  sketch  of  and  song  bj 

589. 

Parke,  his  "  Musical  Memoirs"  quoted,  42. 
Partant  pour  la  Syrie,  509. 
Pat  Malloy,  89. 
Pauper's  Drive,  The,  630. 

PAYNE,  JOHN  HOWARD,  sketch  of  and  song  by  ,41 
PEARCE,  JAMES,  sketch  of  and  song  by,  173. 
PEASE,  ALFRED  H.,  sketch  of  and  song  by,  230. 
Pepys,  Samuel,  quoted,  328,  435. 
PEKCIVAL,  JAMES  GATES,  sketch  of  and  song  by 

278. 

PERCY,  JOHN,  sketch  of  and  song  by,  154. 
PERCY,  THOMAS,  sketch  of  and  song  by,  272. 
"Perdita,"  Mrs.  Robinson,  sketch  of,  345. 
PESTEL,  PAUL,  sketch  of  and  song  by,  491. 
Phillips,  Henry,  his  story  of  "  The  Light  of  Other. 

Days,"  34;  his  "  Recollections"  quoted,  110,  354, 

435  ;  anecdotes  of,  139,  176. 
PHYLA,  Prof.,  song  by,  587. 
PIERCY,  song  by,  614. 
PIKE,  ALBERT,  sketch  of  and  song  by,  580. 
Pilgrim  Fathers,  The,  103. 
Pilot,  Tlie,  190. 

PITT,  WILLIAM,  sketch  of  and  song  by,  114. 
PLANCHE,  JAMES  R. ,  sketch  of  and  song  by,  251. 
Planxty  Kelly,  air  of,  260. 
Planxty  Reilly,  air  of,  407. 
Poor  Jack,  178. 
Poor  Tom,  162. 

PORTER,  Mrs.  DAVID,  song  by,  8.TJ. 
Portmore,  air  of,  97. 
POWELL,  JAMES,  stanza  by,  154. 
PRAED,   WINTHROP  MACKWORTH,  sketch  of  and 

song  by,  14. 

President's  March,  air  of,  586. 
PROCTER,  BRYAN  WALLER,  sketch  of,  109  ;  songa 

by,  109,  139,  398. 
PURDAY,  C.  H.,  song  by,  574. 

Queen'8  Jig,  The,  air  of,  454. 
Quodling's  Delight,  The,  air  of,  80. 

Rain  on  the  Roof,  56. 

Rainy  Day,  The,  620. 

RAMSAY,  ALLAN,  sketch  of,  82  ;  songs  by,  83,  385. 

RANDALL,  JAMES  RYDER,  sketch  of  and  song  by, 

478. 

RAWLINGS,  THOMAS  A.,  sketch  of  and  song  by,  95. 
Reasons  for  Drinking,  464. 

REEVE,  WILLIAM,  sketch  of  and  song   by,  571. 
REID,  WILLIAM,  song  by,  248;  stanza  by,  399. 
REILLY,  MYLES,  song  by,  83. 
Roa*tbeefof  Old  England,  The,  442. 
Robin  Adair,  355  ;  what  Burns  and  Ix>ver  say  of 

it,  241. 

ROBINSON,  MARY,  sketch  of  and  song  by,  345. 
Robinson  Crusoe,  444. 


INDEX. 


Rockaway,  141. 

Rocked  in  the  Cradle  of  the  Deep,  194. 

Rock  me  to  sleep,  71. 

Rogue's  March,  air  of,  571. 

Roll  on,  Silver  Moon,  347. 

ROMER,  FRANK,  sketch  of  and  song  by,  17. 

Itory  O'More,  415. 

Rose  of  Allandale,  The,  379. 

Roilin  Castle,  264. 

Ross,  A.  C.,  sketch  of  and  song  by,  473. 

ROUSSEAU,  JEAN  JACQUES,  sketch  of  and  song  by, 

226. 

Roy's  wife'of  Aldivalloch,  421. 
Ruffian's  Rant,  The,  air  of,  421. 
Rule,  Britannia!  576. 
Russell,  Benjamin,   his   connection    with  "  Adams 

and  Liberty,"  589. 
RUSSELL,  HENRY,  sketch  of,  21 ;  Phillips's  opinion 

of,  202  ;  songs   by,  21,  26,  31, 105, 130,  141,  202, 

210,  623,  632. 

Saint  Patrick  was  a  gentleman,  441. 

Salis,  Johann  Gaudeiiz  von,  stanza  quoted  from, 

388. 

Sally  in  our  Alley,  369. 
Sands  o'  Dee,  The,  187. 
SAKGENT,  EPES,  sketch  of,  130;  songs  by,  130, 

240,  544. 

SATTER,  GUBTAVE,  sketch  of  and  song  by,  318. 
Savourneen  Deelish,  330  ;  air  of,  91. 
Saw  ye  my  wee  thing  f  376. 
Scots,  W?M  hoe  wi'  Wallace  bled,  516. 
SCOTT,  Lady  JOHN,  sketch  of  and  song  by,  365. 
SCOTT,  Sir  WALTER,  his  opinion  of  Lewis,  301  ; 

quoted.  138  ;   songs  by,  266,  371,  497,  499,  508, 

518,  522,  541. 
Sea,  The,  109. 

Shame  fa'  the  gear  and  the  blathrie  o't,  air  of,  256. 
Shamrock,  the,  emblem  of,  244. 
Sharpe,  Charles  Kirkpatrick,  quoted,  364. 
SHARPE,  HENRY  JOHN,  sketch  of  and  song  by,  141. 
SHARPE,  R.  S.  sketch  of  and  song  by,  122. 
SHAW,  OLIVER,  sketch  of,  639 ;  songs  by,  629,  639. 
She  is  far  from  the  land,  357. 
SHERIDAN,   RICHARD  BRINSLEY,    sketch   of   and 

song  by,  249. 
Sherwood,  Judge,   his  account  of  A.  C.  Ross  and 

his  song,  473. 

She  wore  a  wreath  of  roses,  281. 
SHIELD,  WILLIAM,  sketch  of,  173  ;  songs  by,  167, 

173. 

Shuckburg,  Richard,  his   connection  with    "  Yan- 
kee, Doodle,"  583. 
Siller  Crown,  The,  air  of,  351. 
Since  Ccelia's  my  foe,  air  of,  82. 
SKINNER,  JOHN,  sketch  of  and  song  by,  492. 
Skirving,  Mr.,  his  Tranent  Muir,  510. 
Slender  Coat,  The,  air  of,  262. 


Slingsby,  Jonathan  Freke,  259. 

Smiling  Polly,  air  of,  428. 

Smith,  Asa  D.,  quoted,  642. 

Smith,  Frederick,  arranges  melody  of   "  Old  Oaken 

Bucket,"  19. 
SMITH,  ROBERT  ARCHIBALD,  sketch  of,  872  •  songs 

by,  372,  387. 
SMITH,  SAMUEL  FRANCIS,  sketch  of  and  song  by 

595. 

Smoking  Away,  453. 
Soldier's  Dream,  The,  527. 
Soldier's  Return,  The,  519. 
Soldier's  Tear,  The,  504. 
Some  love  to  roam,  202. 
Southerly  wind  and  a  cloudy  sky,  A,  208. 
Sparkling  and  bright,  451. 
SPENCER,  WILLIAM  ROBERT,  sketch  of,  262 ;  songs 

by,  50,  262. 

Spider  and  the  fly,  The,  599. 
SPILMAN,  J.  E.,  song  by,  323. 
Stars  of  the  summer  niylit,  230. 
S.ar-spangkd  Banner,  The,  592. 
STEVENS,  GEORGE  ALEXANDER,  sketch  of  and  song 

by, 120. 
STEVENSON,  Sir  JOHN  ANDREW,  oketch  of  and  song 

by,  227. 

Stewart,  Mrs.  Dugald,  322. 
STOCKHAUSEN,  F.,  sketch  of  and  song  by,  277. 
Storm,  The,  120. 
Stormy  Petrel,  The,  139. 
Strong  walls  of  Derry,  The,  97. 
SULLIVAN,  Mrs.  M.  D.,  song  by,  279. 
Sword  of  Bunker  Hill,  The,  552. 
Symonds,  H.  J.,  quoted,  560. 

Take  me  back  to  Switzerland,  102, 

Tak"  yer  auld  cloak  about  ye,  66. 

TANNAHILL,  ROBERT,  sketch  of,  387 ;  songs  by, 

324,  372,  387. 

Taylor,  Bayard,  quotation  from  poem  by,  364. 
TAYLOR,  JAMES  B.,  song  by,  451. 
TENNYSON,  ALFRED,  sketch  of,  37  ;  songs  by,  87, 

199,  615. 

Tenting  on  the  old  camp  ground,  524. 
The  harp  that  once,  568. 
The  heath  this  night,  541. 
There's  a  good  time  coming,  604. 
There's  nae  room  for  twa,  318. 
There's  nothing  true  but  heaven,  629. 
The  Rose  that  all  are  praising,  276. 
THIBAULT,  CHARLES,  song  by,  235. 
THOMAS,  E.,song  by,  296. 
THOMAS,   FREDERICK   WILLIAM,  sketch    of   and 

song  by,  296. 
THOMSON,  GEORGE,  sketch  of  and  song  by,  881  ; 

his  musical  work,  8. 
Those  evening  betts,  223. 
Ihou  hast  wounded  the  spirit  that  loved  thee,  852. 


CfiO 


INDEX. 


Three  Fishers,  181. 

Thy  fair  bosom,  air  of,  565. 

Tight  little  Island,  The,  571. 

Tippecanoe  and  Tyler  too,  473. 

'Tis  good  to  be  off  with  the  old  love,  air  of,  469. 

'  Tis  midnight  hour,  263. 

'  Tis  said  that  absence  conquer*  love,  296. 

Titiens,  Mile.,  anecdote  of,  333. 

T"  Greece  we  give  our  shining  blades,  515. 

TOLEKEN,  Mr.,  song  by,  441. 

Tom  Bowling,  163. 

Too  late!  615. 

Too  l>te  I  stayed,  262. 

Touch  us  gently,  Time,  398. 

Trancadillo,  151. 

Tranent  Muir,  ballad  of,  510. 

Treasures  of  the  deep,  191. 

Tree.  Miss,  sings  "  Home,  sweet  home,"  42. 

True  love  can  ne'er  forget,  313. 

Tuttochgor>im,492. 

TURNER,  JOSEPH  W.,  sketch  of,  303 ;   songs  by, 

303,  347. 

'Twos  when  the  seas  were  roaring,  128. 
1 'Twer '6  vain  to  tell  thee  all  I  feel,  277 
Twilight  Dews,  229. 
Tyrolese  Evening  Hymn,  215. 

Victoria,  Queen,  story  about,  284. 

WADE,  J.  AUGUSTUS,  sketch  of,  277  ;  songs  by,  277, 
374. 

Waefu'  Heart,  2  he,  320. 

Wait  for  the  wagon,  429. 

Wake  Nicodemus,  480. 

Wallack,  James  W.,  his  singing,  252. 

WALLACE,  WILLIAM  R.,  sketch  of  and  song  by,  552. 

WALLER,  JOHN  F.,  sketch  of  and  song  by,  259. 

Wandering  Willie,  368. 

Wapping  Old  Stairs,  153, 

WASHBURN,  HENRY  S.,  sketch  of  and  song  by,  558. 

Washington's  March,  air  of,  587. 

Watchman's  Song,  638. 

Waterman.  Catherine  R.,  305. 

Wearing  of  the  Green,  488. 

WEBBE,  SAMUEL,  sketch  of  and  song  attributed  to, 
642. 

Wedderburn,  song  from  his  "  Complaynt  of  Scot- 
land," 434. 


Weel  may  the  keel  row,  428. 

We  have  been  friends  together,  30. 

We  have  lived  and  loved  together,  29. 

Welcome,  The,  366. 

Welcome,  brother  debtor,  air  of,  121. 

We  met,  'twas  in  a  crowd,  349. 

We're  a'  noddin',  393. 

Wet  Sheet  and  a  Flowing  Sen,  A,  137. 

Wha'tt  be  King  but  Charlie?  484. 

What  ails  this  heart  o'  mine  f  304. 

What  are  the  Wild  Waves  Saying .?  146. 

What's  a'  the  steer,  kimmer  ?  488. 

What  will  you  do,  love  ?  280. 

When  other  friends  are  round  thee,  305.' 

When  shatt  we  three  meet  again  ?  042. 

When  she  cam  ben,  she  bobbit,  air  of,  417. 

When  stars  are  in  the  quiet  skies,  258. 

Wlten  the  kye  comes  hame,  255. 

When  the  ?iiffht-wind  bewaileth,  240. 

While  History's  muse,  567. 

WHITE,  E.,  song  by,  434. 

White  Squall,  The,  1 15. 

Why,  soldiers,  why  f  456. 

Widow  Machree,  412. 

WIESENTHAL,  T.  V.,  song  by,  45. 

Wife,  children,  and  friends,  50. 

WILDE,  RICHARD  HENRY,  sketch  of  and  song  by 

233. 

WILLARD,  EMMA,  sketch  of  and  song  by,  194. 
Will  you  come  to  the  bower  ?  air  of,  599. 
WILSON,  ALEXANDER,  sketch  of  and  song  by,  311 
Within  a  mile  of  Edinboro',  410. 
WOLFE,  CHARLES,  sketch  of,    560  ;   his  story   of 

Dermid,  219  ;  songs  by,  228,  243,  560. 
Wolfe,  Gen.  James,  anecdote  of,  456. 
Woodman,  spare  that  tree  !  25. 
Woodpecker,  The,  52. 

WOODWORTH,  SAMUEL,  sketch  of  and  song  by,  18 
WORK,  HENRY  C.,  sketch  of  and  song  by,  480. 
Would  I  were  a  boy  again,  16. 
Wounded  Hussar,  The,  543. 
Wrangham,  Archdeacon,  his  translations,  354. 

Yankee  Doodle,  583. 
Tear  that's  awa',  The,  469. 
Ye  mariners  of  England,  573. 
Yes,  the  die  is  cast,  491. 
Young  May  Moon,  The,  250. 


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AUG  1 9  1992 

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